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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035395">I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nug/pseuds/Nug'>Nug</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Clay | Dream is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Dream may be a bitchboy but what if he gets self-awareness AND a conscience, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Redemption, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), a fucked up prideful bastard trying to apologize without actually apologizing, attempt at fluff because I’m very used to writing sad shit, back at it again with shitty introspection, but dream is dream like hell he’s going to apologize, does this count as redemption?, fuck canon let me do this, he realizes he fucked up, he runs away to live out the cottagecore life, he will! but he’s a sad bastard about it, his fight or flight instinct kicks in and this time he chooses flight, that’s it that’s the fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:47:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,838</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nug/pseuds/Nug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands shake—fear, anger, regret, guilt; they all come crashing down on those shoulders of his that were far too small to hold the world. He crumples to the ground, pathetic and weak. No one's around to see it.</p><p>(Maybe he <i>wants</i> someone around to see it.)</p><p>Dream is not Atlas. He fell from the storm of his conscience far before he held the sky on his shoulders. </p><p>"Sorry," he tries to say to nobody and everybody, the words tasting like blood on his lips. It comes out as a pained wheeze.</p><p>Ah, well. He thinks he has time to practice. </p><p>(Or in which Dream says sorry in all the ways possible without those words ever leaving his lips.</p><p>Then he leaves, because that's exactly what everybody wants, isn't it? )</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) &amp; Everyone, No Romantic Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dreamwastaken Angst/Other Dream-centric fanfics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Offer me my deathless death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I really should be working on my English hw rn but nah, here's some funky metaphors strung into something I hope is coherent :,)</p><p>Also yeah, I’m using Hozier lyrics for titles I know I’m creative</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Here’s the setting: it’s 3:17 A.M.</p><p>It’s barely reached the time of dawn. The sun has yet to wake, and the moon still shines in all its nighttime glory. It’s quiet, the sky dark and cloudy in the hours of twilight as everybody sleeps. Wintertime is cold, as it should be, but Dream counts himself lucky he’s not spending it in the snowlands. </p><p>But it sounded nice to live there. In theory.</p><p>Today, or rather, tonight, he feels heavy. It shows in the way his shoulders strain and tense, the way his hands carve red crescents onto scarred skin, the way how every breath he takes is like inhaling glass and blades that fall between the cracks of his ribs to draw blood from a heart he’s not sure he has. It shows in the way his mask falls to the ground when he collapses on his bed and he barely spares a glance, the way his throat burns with a thousand and one words but only blood leaves his lips, the way old wounds and gashes sear through bone and muscle until he’s a pathetic heap who is so, so alone.</p><p>It’s as if he carries the world on his shoulders, and he wants to ask Atlas, “What is heavier, the sky or people’s hearts?”</p><p>But there’s no use in asking that. He knows the answer, seeing as he’s held both in those rough hands of his. It hasn’t ended well, nothing ever does because it’s <i>him</i>, the boy in a mask drunk with power and emotions and so much red it spills from his mouth, cascades from his fists, trails down his axe, and paints the armor he dons an ugly crimson. He is decorated in ribbons of blood he has spilled, and it’s worn like a second skin. </p><p>Remorse is something he has learned to ignore, a feeling he learns is better not to dwell on, but as strong as he is—as he <i>appears</i>—he’s weak when it comes to this because that’s who he is: someone who’s a ticking time bomb swimming in blood and sin, someone who thinks every decision he makes will be right when he knows it’s not, someone who just wants to be in control.</p><p>This is his server. </p><p>Dream is <i>not</i> weak. </p><p>The moon is out, and he lays on his bed, chest heaving up and down from a fatigue only he has when he thinks. And it’s not about his next move, it’s not about how to manipulate, control, <i>destroy</i> everybody against him because he is doing all of this for a reason; they just need to see that. That’s not what he’s thinking about.</p><p>Actually, he doesn’t know what he’s thinking about—what was it? He feels something venomous coiling in the bottom of his gut like a snake baring its fangs, tearing through everything, and he really doesn’t want to get up, oh but wait, what was he thinking about?—because there is so much swirling and spiraling it’s like swimming through a hurricane.</p><p>War is a nasty business that he’s intimately familiar with, slash after slash, swing after swing, until that’s all his body remembers. He’s someone of battles and fights, and maybe that’s why he gets along somewhat with the infamous Technoblade. The memory, the thrill of steel against steel is what fuels them, and his mask is his crimson-soaked crown he dons with a twisted pride and a shame he shoves deep enough where it will never see the sun. </p><p>Dream is molded for this kind of environment, adapting easily, reacting quickly, always on guard and maybe that’s exactly why everything he had is gone.</p><p>This is a good thing, he tells himself. No attachments, no weaknesses. Look what those discs did to Tommy.</p><p>What <i>you</i> did, something else whispers close to his ear. You are all things imperfect and crooked, desperate and destructive, broken and dastardly, and there is no one who knows this better than you. </p><p>His fingers tremble with a fragility he hates, because Dream is not weak, not fragile, not jaded, not someone to be looked down upon. The gloves that cover his palms suddenly feel constricting, hot, and his digits wrap themselves around his wrist hard enough to bruise. He finds that he doesn’t mind the pain; it brings him out of his head, and back into his empty, hollow room.</p><p>He’s not sure which he preferred: his head, or his room.</p><p>The smile on his mask is daunting, even to him now, when he stares at it, the air hitting his face new and unfamiliar. He has gone so long with the mask it might as well have been a part of him. The porcelain is dirtied, no longer snow white as it had been in its prime, hairline cracks and dirt circling its edge. He makes no move to fix it.</p><p>It is 3:30 A.M. To him, it feels as if it has been hours. Time is splintered to a man like him, he supposes, because he is everything shattered with no one left but him to pick up the pieces. He can’t find it in him to be any kind of angry; he thinks he expected this outcome a long time ago, in the back of his mind. He wonders why he ignored that.</p><p>He ignored a lot of things, he realizes. He neglected things he thought were useless, unneeded, a gap in his chink of armor and firewalls, and one of those things were relationships. Friends. People. </p><p>( He’s doing this for them. Right now, they might feel betrayed, angry, furious, but this is for the best. They’ll eventually see this was all for them. )</p><p>It is easy to think his way of thinking is right, but it’s so very painful to do so because he knows he is not. In his quest for more power to wield, more puppets to string along, he had lost them, and he resents that stubborn yearning for the reassurance and warmth they had brought them. He wants to push it down with the rest of his emotions he had deemed a roadblock for his cause. </p><p>It’s too early in the morning for anybody to still be awake, but Dream stares at the rolling fields, the towering buildings, the life thrumming beneath the land they have all built, and what he was working to bring down.</p><p>A question burns his tongue as his eyes search for something to flare that poison in his stomach, something to make his gut curdle in disgust and fury, something to bring his hands to grab the axe that has crimson permanently staining its blade.</p><p>Nothing. </p><p>Grief feels so much like fear. </p><p>
  <i>Why?</i>
</p><p>The words scald his tongue numb, bitter and sharp. He asks it again to himself, this time out loud, his voice weaker than he would’ve liked. </p><p>For once, he wants to leave. It’s unnatural, the instinct to run far, far away—he only runs in the Manhunts, to win, to chase. He feels disgust and guilt rolled into one horrible gut-wrenching feeling that gives him the urge to puke. The question rings again in his ears.</p><p>
  <i>Why?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Why are you doing this?</i>
</p><p>For them, he almost says, then he stops himself because the words clog his throat, stick to it, and they won’t come out. </p><p>Now, without his mask, he feels naked, even in his own home. Panicked, he makes a grab to it, shoving it onto his face, his heart calming ever-so-slightly. His mind swirls with demanding words and questions and demeaning remarks all aimed to cut, and they work because who knows better of his weak spots then himself?</p><p>
  <i>Leave.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Why’d you do it?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Look at the peace. You’re ruining it.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You’re not helping anybody.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Just leave, leave, leave, never come back.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>They’d be better off, and you know it.</i>
</p><p>“I do,” he croaks, and he winces at the coarse echo of his voice. Dream is not weak. He tightens his hold on his mask, greedily grasping any vague comfort he could find from it. </p><p>He is not weak.</p><p>
  <i>Then admit your mistakes.</i>
</p><p>Dream is a mess of a man held together by lies and deceit, his edges washed off like sea glass, and he holds his mask like it’s his lifeline. It’s the only thing keeping the world from seeing just how much he feels. </p><p><i>Escape</i>, something far down screams at him, <i>run, run, run</i> until no one can find you, until no one can see you and the red that’s tattooed on his flesh for everyone to see and judge. </p><p>He is not weak. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he tries to say to nobody and everybody, the words tasting like blood on his lips. It comes out as a pained wheeze.</p><p>Ah, well. He thinks he has time to practice. </p><p>It’s 3:45 A.M. Dream falls asleep to the lull of the moonlight filtering through his window.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I walk my days on a wire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He doesn't know what he's doing, Dream realizes a little too late. He's already standing in front of the unfinished prison.</p><p>Sincerity, he learns, has a harder time slipping out than his usual slick words.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dream to himself: okay you just gotta start by apologizing to them then we'll work from there</p><p>Also Dream when finally facing them: I am Running Away. apologies can wait, it is time to Leave.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seeing the tall obsidian walls he had ordered to be built, Dream is scared to look at himself.</p><p>The prison is daunting, intimidating, foul, and it gave the exact image he had always strived to achieve. Right now though, he’s not sure about that anymore. Instinctively, his hand moves up to adjust the mask on his face, lips twisted into a frown. </p><p>
  <i>Why?</i>
</p><p>Dream steps towards it carefully and cautiously, not sure why he was acting like he was walking on eggshells. The distant noise of building and idle chatter reach his ears, and he’s reminded why he’s here. His hands tug at his gloves, and he tells himself he’s not nervous.</p><p>Taking out a bag of diamonds big enough that it hurt his wallet looking at it, he moves closer to its obsidian walls to go in. But as his hand near the door, he pauses, something halting his actions.</p><p>He withdraws his hand, and steps back. </p><p>The bag of diamonds feels heavier. </p><p>He can’t do this, he realizes. He is not weak, but he chooses his battles and this is one he will not fight today.</p><p><i>You are not weak</i>, he says to himself, so so desperate. <i>You are not a coward.</i></p><p>Turning away from the prison, away from Pandora’s Vault—he’s already opened up too much, and now he’s here planning to do what?—he barely makes it a few feet away before he hears the creak of the door swinging open and two people exiting the prison. He feels them pause in place. How did he not hear them approach?</p><p>Right. Obsidian walls.</p><p>“Dream?”</p><p>It’s Sam’s voice that sounds out first, tired and wary. Dream tightens his hold on the bag in his hand. Uncertainly, he wavers between the decision to walk away or turn to him.</p><p>Dream is not weak.</p><p>He turns to face Sam and Punz, both of them tense but weary. Dream feels a flush of gratitude for his mask, his shield from them. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Sam asks, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. “We’ve got a lot of stuff done already as fast as we can and—”</p><p>“Stop,” Dream cuts in, clear and concise. Then hesitantly, he lifts up the bag and tosses it to them. Punz catches it reflexively, steadying his hold on it before opening it up. Seeing what was inside, he almost gasps before Dream speaks up again. “I want you to stop building it.”</p><p>The creeper hybrid’s face twists with more emotions than Dream thought could appear on someone at the same time, and then frowns, suspicious. “What the hell are you talking about?”</p><p>“Is that what’s this for?” Punz shakes the bag of diamonds, raising a brow. “Some kind of refund?”</p><p>“You could put it like that,” Dream answers, his hand fiddling with his mask again. It’s one of his only tells that show his nerves, and he forces his hand to stay by his side. “I’m sure that’s enough. Just stop building the prison.”</p><p>“But why?” </p><p>( Because, Dream wants to say, because I can’t help but look at this and think the only one ever going in there is <i>me.</i></p><p>Is that selfish of him? )</p><p>Sam’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between the bag of diamonds and Dream. He flexes his fingers into a fist, shoulders not relaxing. “This prison is something you’ve always wanted us to build. Is there something else?”</p><p>Punz steps in front, posture defensive. “Hey, we’re almost done, and you want us to stop? You’re the one who demanded us to work harder to finish this faster.” He holds up the bag and his eyes harden. “Is this a bribe? Something else you want us to—”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>He stops, eyes whipping to Dream and meeting with that frustrating mask of his. His brows furrow and he would’ve retorted back if not for the exhaustion that weighed Dream’s words. There was no venom or malice, no bite, and that was enough to make him look at the masked man with confusion. </p><p>Dream takes a moment to breathe, Sam and Punz watching him like he was going to explode any second now. He thinks that reaction is appropriate, but it hurts anyways.</p><p>“This prison,” he manages, his voice barely steady, “shouldn’t be finished. Call me whatever you want, suspect whatever, just stop building it.”</p><p>The silence they answer with is so much louder than any conversation they could’ve had, and Dream pushes down the urge to turn tail and run. He is not weak. He isn’t a coward. </p><p><i>Says the man hiding behind a mask</i>, something whispers. His head bows down, not completely unlike the way he does when he wants to unnerve people, but the way he does it now is almost compliant, docile. Sam tastes something bitter on his tongue. </p><p>“Okay,” he says slowly, making eye contact with Punz for a few brief seconds before averting his gaze back to Dream. “But <i>why?</i> Why the sudden change?”</p><p>Dream stares, as if contemplating an answer, his fingers drumming against his thigh. And now that they were looking at him, really looking at him, Dream looked worse for wear and so, terribly tired. It’s something new, something they’re unused to, because this is the man who always stood tall and confident, shoulder taunt and head tilted as he spoke words of honey that cut deeper than any weapon he wielded. He has caused and fought wars, and a man none but Technoblade could ever hope to bring down.</p><p>They look at him again, and he has a feeling to himself that looks far too resigned than someone like him should ever be. Green has always been his color, but his hoodie, his mask, his sunken atmosphere is all gray, gray, gray. </p><p>Something is wrong, they realize. </p><p>“No one is ever going to go in there,” he says finally, head slightly moving to the building behind them. The two don’t miss the way his throat bobs, nor the way his feet shift subtly into a position that would make it easier to dash away from Pandora's Vault. “No one deserves it.” <i>Except for me</i>, goes unsaid, and nobody but him hears those words repeat themselves like a mantra in his head. </p><p>“No one is ever going to go in there,” Punz repeats, an angry huff escaping him as he walks closer to Dream. “Then why commission it? You- who did you plan to toss in there?”</p><p>Any response that comes to mind dies on his lips, and Dream just, just-</p><p>He thinks talking is so much more scarier than the bloodbaths he wades in. </p><p>Punz searches for anything to see, anything to find on Dream to give away any of his thoughts, but Dream is used to being the grandmaster, the puppeteer, the manipulator, and if there is anything that all those things call for, it’s control. So he relaxes his stance, his mask almost mocking the other as he peers down at him. </p><p>“That doesn’t matter,” he says cooly, giving nothing away with his voice. He’s back again, pulling up his walls, because he’s still weak and raw from the night before, his head pounding and throbbing. “What does matter is to—”</p><p>Dream falters, unsure for a split second on his next words, but he forges on.</p><p>“What does matter is to stop this,” he gestures to the prison, “and take— take a break.”</p><p>Those words are foreign to hear to both parties now, Sam and Punz stilling as Dream plants his feet deeper into the ground as a way to tell himself, <i>don’t run.</i></p><p>This is hard, he thinks. Because the language he speaks is honeyed words that are sweet and seductive, empty promises dancing on his tongue and doing so is as natural as breathing. Genuinity is hard to come by, and he is the person anybody would least expect to try to be genuine.</p><p>Oh well. He lives to surprise and disappoint. </p><p>Dream avoids looking at the prison and them now. “I’m sure the money is enough. I’m not giving any more than that.” </p><p>A beat of silence passes, laced with something unfamiliar and strange. That makes Dream uncomfortable. </p><p>It’s almost sad how estranged they are now, how fast ties can snap and break.</p><p>( But he's good at tying knots. )</p><p>“Dream,” Sam calls out, something shifting in his eyes. Dream recognizes it as something akin to understanding and a bare relief he doesn’t know why is there. “We’ll stop building it. Pandora’s Vault. But I get the feeling there’s something else you want to say.”</p><p>He winces at that, his mask slipping as he pushes it up in response to Sam’s statement. Dream wonders fleetingly if he would—if he <i>should</i>—take his mask off to show his face to them, but his next thought is an immediate refusal. A fool’s thought, naive and unlike him and how he should be. It is this mask that protects him, so there is no reason to remove it.</p><p>It is this mask that forms the walls that surround the man in green. He thinks he’s starting to see that now. </p><p>He wants to scream out “I’m sorry!” He wants to yell it in their faces, tell them a thousand times over, and he feels something crack inside of him and now he’s willing to kneel for forgiveness. He was cursed with the sin of pride and greed, and that is something that never bodes well.</p><p>( Greed is stolen glances, longing stares, gleaming blades and a fire that burn in the pit of your stomach.</p><p>Pride is a head held high, a battle and more won, bloodied blades sunken deep into flesh, and loud triumphant yells that boil your skin red hot. )</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. It comes out as, “Let’s destroy the prison.”</p><p>There’s something oddly gratifying in the way obsidian falls into dust and crumbles. And perhaps it’s him being a hopeless fool, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, they understand his apology.</p><p>Punz turns to Dream, face unreadable. “Hey,” he says, unsurely, “are you hungry?”</p><p>Dream spares one last look at the mess that he had once admired. </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”</p><p>As he strides in turn alongside them, he thinks his shoulders feel lighter.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Damn 80+ kudos and 450+ hits in one day holy shit thank you guys :D</p><p>Finals are a bitch so I cope by writing Dream being Bad at Feelings™. Thanks for the comments!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Boys runnin’ on empty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream doesn’t <i>do</i> “Talking about Feelings.”</p><p>But, well, he’s up for some baking.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam sets the dishes of food on the table, its scent making Dream’s fingers twitch with the urge to stuff it down his mouth. Instead, his hands straighten his mask as his eyes dart between Sam and Punz. </p><p>Punz clears his throat. “So.” </p><p>Dream shifts in his seat, wondering why he decided to eat with them. He’s never shown <i>anybody</i> his face, and he’s sure this wasn’t exactly the best time for such a reveal. The idea of showing any part of his face makes his skin crawl. He bites his lip nervously. “So.”</p><p>“You’re not going to explain why you suddenly came to stop us from building Pandora’s Vault?” Sam crosses his arm, sitting across from him. The creeper-hybrid studies him, tilting his head slightly to the side. “And that bag of diamonds was way more than needed, honestly.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dreams says, a little despondently, fingers curling into a fist. His nails dig into his palms underneath the table. “Well. The more the better, I suppose.”</p><p>“Not that he’s complaining about it,” Punz adds, swallowing down the pork on his own plate. He glances at Dream’s untouched food. His brows furrow together as he leans back into his chair. “Do you need something?”</p><p>The masked man takes an inaudible breath in, then out. “I’ve told you already.” He rubs the fabric of his pants between his fingers. “I just wanted you guys to stop building it.”</p><p>“That’s it?” </p><p>“That’s it.”</p><p>A sigh. “Would you prefer us not to look?” </p><p>Dream’s head turns to him confusedly. “What?”</p><p>“To eat,” Sam elaborates. “You haven’t touched your food. A bit rude to not eat your host’s food.”</p><p>“Sorry,” he apologizes reflexively to his words, hands lifting up to start eating. Sam looked a little surprised by his immediate response, his frown reappearing on his face. They frown a lot, around him, Dream notices. Not that he blames them. His mask builds walls, he thinks. He still hesitates to take it off. </p><p>“No, no, it’s fine,” Sam says awkwardly, watching who he had once considered one of his closest friends hover his hand over the edge of his mask. He looks at Punz, who stares strangely at Dream, then looks back at Sam and shrugs. “We can just—”</p><p>“If you wouldn’t mind.” Dream sounds more stable this time, but his image is a far cry from what they usually see of him. In front of them is not a man of confidence, of unshakable strength, but a boy who doesn’t recognize his own face from the porcelain mask he always wears. Walls are built high, but Dream is still trying to find it in himself to sink his hands into them and tear it to the ground. “I— You guys haven’t finished yet though. I, uh, I could go somewhere else.”</p><p>“No, you don’t have to,” Punz brushes off, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. “Has anybody seen your face before?” His expression shows that he’s been thinking about it for a while. Dream pauses.</p><p>“Kind of,” he admits, “But it was a long time ago. I’m not the same.”</p><p>The conversation lulls to a stop then, all of them opting to just redirect their attention to their food. Dream moves his mask up enough to reveal his mouth, ignoring the slight tremor of his hand, and takes his first bite of food. It’s quiet, save for their low breathing and the clink of utensils; it’s not entirely tense, not awkward somehow, rather, it’s a kind of silence where unspoken words simmer silently in the air, none willing to let it come to light. </p><p>Dream thinks it’s kind of nice. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a meal like this that wasn’t just made and eaten for basic survival. It’s a welcome change from his diet of just plain bread and apples. </p><p>( When nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want, what do you call it, freedom or loneliness? )</p><p>The silence continues, slowly forming into something more comfortable but not quite warm, something stagnant but not quite stiff. Dream is the one who silently takes their now empty dishes to wash, and Sam lets out a brief protest before being stopped by Dream’s stubborn stare and quiet mumble of, “Least I could do.”</p><p>Water trickles down his skin, a change from the red he’s used to. He doesn’t mind the difference, the dull splatter of water and the chatter of the other two sound in the background. It’s peaceful.</p><p>But this is temporary. </p><p>
  <i>Don’t get attached.</i>
</p><p>“Thanks,” Sam says offhandedly as he passes by him. Dream’s hands stop scrubbing, his head dipping down. His throat feels dry. </p><p>“No problem,” he replies scratchily, not remembering anybody saying something like <i>thanks</i> to him in such a long time. Something swirls in his gut, warm but fleeting. He wants it again. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Hey, Sam?”</p><p>Sam turns to look at Dream. “Yeah?”</p><p>The words take a moment to get out, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. It’s hard to talk. It’s easier to swing a sword. “Thanks.”</p><p>A pause. “For what?”</p><p>Another pause. “Just…” Dream searches for the right words that he wants to say. “Thanks for the food.” </p><p>A small smile. “No problem,” Sam echoes. “If you like the food, why not make some more?”</p><p>“...What do you mean?”</p><p>Sam deadpans. “Cooking. Baking. You don’t know what those are?”</p><p>“There’s a knife right here, you know. Right in grabbing distance.”</p><p>“Is that a yes or a no.”</p><p>Dream continues to scrub the dishes in a contemplative silence. Sam leans on the counter, observing his stiff form. The masked man turns off the tap as he finishes up, rubbing his damp hands with a towel.</p><p>“I wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>“Okay then,” Sam says. “Then we’re going to Niki’s bakery.”</p><p>“What.”</p><p>“We’re going to Niki’s—”</p><p>“I heard you the first time,” Dream hisses, turning his body to face Sam. He doesn’t understand the flare of anger that rears its head, snarling and snapping furiously. He doesn’t understand a lot of things about him anymore, and it only fuels the fire. “Why do we need to go there?”</p><p>The way Sam looks at him makes him feel as if he didn’t have his mask on him at all, as if it had split in half and Sam was peering right through the cracks directly at him. Uncertainty and acid mix together in a terrible mess of feelings he had kept wrapped up. He was unraveling at the seams and he doesn’t know why.</p><p><i>Getting defensive there</i>, the voice in his head lilts amusedly. <i>Aw, is the big bad Dream getting tangled up in his puppet strings?</i></p><p>“To bake,” Sam answers simply, face carefully blank. Was he trying to make sure Dream couldn’t read him? There’s no use in that, he’s the one who is always one step ahead, always knowing what they’re thinking, always controlling them from behind the scenes. What does <i>he</i> know? Sam doesn’t know anything.</p><p><i>Why so defensive?</i> the question rings again. </p><p>He wants to back out now. He really doesn’t want to talk anymore people, because <i>god</i>, he could barely say ‘thanks’ to Sam and not even an actual ‘sorry’ to him and Punz, so he’s sure it wouldn’t be any better than if he tried to do so with Niki and—</p><p>And Puffy. </p><p>( <i>“My sweet boy.”</i></p><p>
  <i>Her hands cup around his cheek, delicately as if handling glass. Her voice is sad, and Dream hates, hates, hates it.</i>
</p><p><i>“Where did you go?”</i> )</p><p>Why was he even doing this in the first place? To try to lessen the guilt? He brought this upon himself, what was he trying to do? </p><p>He wants to back out now. </p><p>But he is not weak. </p><p>“Okay,” he says, that one word burning like lava on his tongue. His hands go up again as if to reassure himself the mask was still there. Nothing broken. No one can see <i>him</i>, and all his frowns and scowls and twisted smiles of a tired triumph that one takes when you’ve lost everything in exchange for victory.</p><p>“Oi, Punz,” Sam calls out, not lifting his gaze from the masked man. Punz pokes his head into the kitchen. “We’re going to make some desserts.”</p><p>“Sweet,” the other says, a grin stretching on his face. </p><p>“I got some flour and eggs in the back, you mind grabbing them?”</p><p>“What am I, your maid?”</p><p>Sam snorts. “A bad one. You’re not even wearing the dress. I’m deducting your pay.”</p><p>“I’m leaving.”</p><p>After he disappears from view, Dream says again, with feeling. “What.” </p><p>“Change of plans,” Sam says all too easily, as if Dream hadn’t just almost snapped just at the thought of confronting more people that he wants to ( hurt, apologize, destroy, plead to, manipulate, talk— ). “We’re baking here.”</p><p>He finds he asks this question a lot, or maybe he’s asking a lot of questions in particular today. Odd, since it’s usually the other way around. “Why? I thought we were going to— to the bakery?”</p><p>Sam studies him again, his gaze not as piercing as before, but more pensive. “Why not? Let’s try to do it on our own for now.”</p><p>Dream raises a brow, even if the other couldn’t see it. The thought comes across anyways. “Have you ever baked before?”</p><p>Sam purses his lips. “Yeah, uh, a few times.”</p><p>Dream’s silence prompts him to continue. </p><p>“Three times.”</p><p>“And Punz?”</p><p>“...I don’t know.”</p><p>“So never.”</p><p>“Ok look,” Sam says defensively, “the fun is in learning!”</p><p>“I am not cleaning up that shit later.”</p><p>Without missing a beat Sam replies with, “I’ll pay Punz to do it.”</p><p>Dream can’t help the short amused cackle that leaves him, his hands resting on the countertop. “Baking,” he repeats, tilting his head, “baking what exactly?”</p><p>“Cake sounds nice.” Any tension that they still had had left them, traces of snickers and laughter clinging to their lips like sugar. “Hopefully you’re up for the challenge.”</p><p>Punz comes in with the bags of ingredients stacked precariously on his arms. “I’m back! Here’s your shit.” He ungracefully plops them down on the counter, the stack surprisingly not falling into a mess. “So what are we doing?”</p><p>“Cake,” Dream and Sam say simultaneously. Punz’s expression drops.</p><p>“The mess—”</p><p>Sam tosses a few diamonds over to him. “Your mess.” </p><p>“You guys think I’m cheap.”</p><p>Dream gives him one more diamond. “Here’s a tip.”</p><p>“Add one more and I’ll consider it.”</p><p>“How about we start <i>baking?</i> Then I’ll consider it.”</p><p>The baking ends in a few too many fails and too much flour on each other, but Dream prefers the flour sticking to his hands than red. Peace is nice; he wonders why he thought to break it. </p><p>It’ll get better soon, once he leaves ( not <i>escaping</i>, just leaving ). He’s never been good at healing anyways.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mama Puffy pog</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Would things be easier if there was a right way?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream thinks he’s been doing a little too much baking. The sugar must’ve gone to his head.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter ghostwrote itself bc I think I blacked out while writing this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream stares at the results of Sam, Punz, and his attempts with baking, having taken home some of the cakes. Looking at them keeps reminding him of Niki’s Bakery. He purses his lips.</p><p>The cakes weren’t bad, but he finds himself craving Niki’s pastries. </p><p>His hands slip off his gloves, fingers clenching and unclenching as he looks at the scars that wrapped around it, having memorized them long ago. Then he removes his mask hesitantly, setting it down on the table. He’s doing that more, taking off his mask. He thinks it’s supposed to be freeing.</p><p>He doesn’t know what he actually feels about it. He just feels vulnerable. </p><p>He puts his mask back on. A shaky relieved breath leaves him. Better. But the sugar on his lips fades. It’s fine though, there’s more cake left. </p><p>Dream doesn’t touch it.</p><p>He tells himself it’s more for later. </p><p>Any remnants of cake are gone, stored away in his home as he steps out, mask on and bare netherite armor worn. It gives him a strange comfort, but he doesn’t put all of it on. He’s not going to battle. </p><p>Although he might as well be, with how horrifying it is to fight with words now. Not the sly kind that drips with poison that he’s adept at using terrifyingly so, but the sincere ones that are earnest and honest and all things he is not. There’s a reason he wears a mask. The smile he shows to the world is that of smeared ink on white, and that was all he was planning on showing.</p><p>His fingers itch with the urge to wrap themselves around the familiar handle of his axe. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if to block out everything. Then he opens them and continues down to his destination, his steps quick before he loses his nerve. </p><p>Closure, he thinks, is something he’s not sure he deserves. But he has always been a greedy, selfish man, so he searches for it anyways. </p><p>The building comes into view after he finally approaches, but catching just a brief glimpse of it already has him stopping in his tracks, lips parted and tongue twisted. His hands unconsciously go up to his mask, the pad of his thumb caressing the indents and cracks formed by the wear and tear and the years he has gone with the porcelain on his face. He takes another breath in, and out.</p><p>Just to get pastries, he says to himself. That’s all. No need to get worried.</p><p>No, no, he corrects himself, he was never <i>worried</i>. Dream doesn’t <i>get</i> worried over seeing other people and— and talking to them. That’s not Dream. He’s not weak like that.</p><p>Why was he here in the first place?</p><p><i>For desserts</i>, a part of him says. </p><p><i>Because you’re selfish</i>, says the mask he wears, both of porcelain and walls. <i>Because you’re trying to delude yourself into thinking you’re redeemable.</i></p><p>He ignores it.</p><p>His body moves almost on auto-pilot, his feet bringing him near the bakery even as his mind begins to list all the reasons this is a bad idea and all the ways this could go wrong. So he does what he does best: compartmentalize. </p><p>The voice in his head fades as he shoves it back where he won’t be able to hear it. It’d do better for his crumbling will and sanity. He pushes open the door. The bell chimes pleasantly, but it does nothing to stop the nerves that cling to his skin like a second layer. </p><p>And there’s Niki, emerging from behind the counter as she moves to greet the customer that has just entered her shop. Her eyes land on him, and her expression changes into something of shock, anger, wariness, disappointment, and everything in between rolled into one. Dream isn’t surprised by this reaction—he <i>really</i> fucked up, didn’t he—and just stills by the door.</p><p>He doesn’t make a move forward, only cautiously watching Niki and she does to him.</p><p>“Dream,” she starts, the word heavy. “What— why. Why are you here.” </p><p>The way she says it isn’t voiced as a question, so Dream wonders if he should answer. Well, she’s not saying anything more, so he supposes this was when he’s supposed to answer. Hm. He’s not good at this.</p><p>“Pastries,” he blurts out, the answer sounding stupid even to him. He tries to withhold the wince from that response, but he can’t because <i>really</i>, that was bad. His mouth runs off on its own. “I wanted some food.”</p><p>They stare at each other. Niki looks close to punting him onto God’s doormat. Dream feels the same. </p><p>“You wanted food,” Niki says slowly, eyes narrowing, “so you came here.” Dream thinks that’s pretty much it, she just summed up why he was here. That <i>is</i> why he’s here, he repeats to himself. Nothing else. </p><p>“What do you really want,” she asks again, tired. He feels a twinge of guilt and so much hate stir up in his stomach, because this is what he did, made everybody doubt and weary and exhausted. His eyes observe her carefully, watching the way her fingers curl over the countertop’s edge and the way her shoulders squared as if ready to defend. </p><p>Dream is an attacker. He doesn’t feel as proud about that as he used to be. </p><p>He is not weak, he reminds himself.</p><p>“Desserts,” he repeats, not moving from his spot. “Cake,” he adds on for specification.</p><p>Niki keeps her gaze on him, skeptical and on guard. He tries to look as unthreatening as possible, but it’s hard when he’s always used to showing everybody just how strong he was, how he was not to be messed with, and just who they were talking to. He’s sure the mask doesn’t really help either.</p><p>“Just cake?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he replies, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in a bit of a sweet-tooth mood.”</p><p>“Really?” Niki lifts her hands from the counter, but doesn’t completely relax. Dream takes a tentative step forward, taking care to watch her reaction. She doesn’t flinch or back away, but her hands flex, ready to bring out a weapon. He doesn’t take another step. </p><p>Dream clears his throat. “Yeah, um. I did some baking with— with Sam and Punz.” He keeps stumbling over his words, and it feels terrible, he wants to tell her he changed his mind and he can just go, talking to her is so much harder than he thought it would be and— “But it didn’t exactly come out the best. Expected but.” He looks at her straight on. “I uh, thought I could get some here. Some cake.”</p><p>“Okay then.” Niki looks as if she has no clue what to think about the scary masked man who had waged war with her nation coming into her bakery to ask for cake, and wonders if she should just refuse. But then she registers all of what he had just said and blanks. “Wait, what. You— <i>you</i> did <i>baking</i> with Sam and Punz?”</p><p>“Yes,” he answers, tilting his head, looking awfully like a confused dog. She smothers that image immediately.</p><p>She massages her temple. “Cool,” she says, because she doesn’t know how else to respond. “So. Cake?”</p><p>He nods, and takes another tiny step forward. Seeing his hesitancy to step forward, she pauses before giving him a clipped nod. He seems to understand, and walks closer, but enough to give a comfortable distance between each other. </p><p>“Do you,” he begins, suddenly looking a lot more nervous. Niki doesn’t remember if Dream was ever so <i>open</i> with his emotions like this, through his body language and the way he spoke. “Do you have any tips for baking?”</p><p>This wasn’t happening, she thinks faintly as Dream stared expectantly at her. Was <i>Dream</i>, the man so adamantly against L’manburg, the terrifying manipulative admin of the Dream SMP, asking her for baking tips?</p><p>“What the fuck,” she almost says. Instead, what comes out is, “I’d have to show you.”</p><p>A beat of silence. She realizes what she said. </p><p>“Oh,” he says, hands shoved in his green hoodie. He was wearing a lot less armor than she was used to seeing on him, she notices, and no familiar axe in sight. “Um. Is. Is that an offer?”</p><p>“I mean, unless you’re busy or don’t want to,” he hurriedly adds after, hands flying up. “I could just go get the cake now. Yeah.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine,” she finds herself insisting, and her mouth seems to have a life of its own. Why was she offering to give baking tips to <i>Dream</i>? She thinks she should feel a little more panicked about this. “Uh, you can just, come in, I guess. Make some cake.”</p><p>Dream stands in front of the counter across from Niki, not moving. She glances at him, eyebrows scrunched together. “Dream?”</p><p>“You’re sure?” he asks, so softly she wasn’t quite sure she caught it. “You’re fine with this?”</p><p>Niki stares at Dream, and realizes she has never seen him so raw and expressive like this. When she blinks, she sees a flash of a Dream who laughed with a freedom that was bigger than the world, a Dream whose smile could be felt from under the mask, bright and genuine. </p><p>She blinks, and she sees a Dream of war and betrayal. </p><p>She blinks again, and now, she sees a Dream who likes cake and wants to bake one. </p><p>This was just about baking, she tells herself, shaking her head. That’s all. </p><p>“Yes, I am,” she assures, trying to put strength in her voice. “Don’t pull anything, got it?”</p><p>He bows his head. “Yes ma’am.”</p><p>Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitches up slightly. “Good.”</p><p>And then he steps behind the counter, and she offers him an apron. He dutifully loops it over his head, then turns to her for instructions. She almost laughs at the way how the apron on him made this feel so normal. Like there were no wars, and it was just a day with another friend. </p><p>But he’s not a friend.</p><p>It feels so, so weird, so strange, this moment, like it was some kind of dream she could wake up from at any moment. But when she hands him a measuring cup and feels his fingers brush against hers, she knows he’s really here.</p><p>The <i>why</i> can be asked later. </p><p>“Alright, so why don’t you start with…”</p><p>There’s less of a mess this time, Dream thinks, and Niki’s experience shows. They’re still not completely relaxed around each other, but she smiles now, small but sincere. Dough is kneaded between his hands, soft and fluffy, and Niki gives a nod of approval with a smile before moving away to continue making the frosting. </p><p>Maybe he could bring one to Sam and Punz, he offhandedly thinks, then startles himself with that thought. Would they even want it? Accept it? Sure, they had an impromptu baking session with each other but still. People don’t forgive so easily, do they?</p><p>He doesn’t know. He won’t ask either.</p><p>“Oh, good, that dough is ready to be put in the oven,” Niki says, gesturing to the dough on the table. Dream smiles, not just with his lips but with the way his shoulders relax ever so slightly, the way he subconsciously quietly hums in satisfaction, the way he tilts his head and his cheeks peek from behind the mask.</p><p>He looks like the Dream she remembers from so long ago, for a moment.</p><p>“Got it,” he replies, sliding the dough towards her. “The frosting looks good.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she says, a little spacey. “I think this is going to be—”</p><p>She’s interrupted by the chiming of bells by the door, signalling the arrival of someone entering the bakery. They both instinctively freeze, before their heads whip towards the entrance. Dream feels his breath hitch, hands stalling in their actions.</p><p>It’s Puffy. </p><p>( <i>“You’re not my duckling,” she says, voice steely and jaded. He feels a painful little thing settle in his gut he thinks is hurt. “My duckling wouldn’t do this.”</i></p><p>
  <i>He forces down the ball of emotions that blocks his throat, willing himself to speak.</i>
</p><p><i>“Look at me,” he says back, nothing kind in his voice.  He spreads his arms like he has everything to prove to the world. “Look at me, see the fangs in my smile; I was never soft, like you believed. I was always a wolf and you tried to imagine me as a sheep.”</i> )</p><p>She’s stiff, ready to pounce or leap away, when she sees him.</p><p>“You— Dream, what, why are you—?” Puffy’s eyes dart to Niki, and back to Dream, seeing both of their hands covered in flour and aprons hanging off their necks. </p><p>Dream can’t find the words to speak. Luckily, Niki does. </p><p>“We’re baking a cake,” she says with a mix of genuine and forced cheer. “Dream decided to stop by because he wanted one.” Hearing his name, Dream is snapped out of his dazed stupor. </p><p>“Right,” he affirms, hollowly. Puffy inhales loudly, and fully steps into the bakery. </p><p>“Really? He— he didn’t come for anything else?”</p><p>Her doubt stings, cuts him like the sword he clashes against. He swallows. </p><p>“No, just cake,” Nikki assures, her eyes glancing over to Dream for a split second. “Puffy, it’s fine.” </p><p>The sheep-hybrid looked anything but convinced, still tense and keeping her eyes on Dream. He needs to talk to her. Maybe apologize for everything, all the words said and help brushed off because he didn’t need—<i>want</i>—help. </p><p>“Puffy,” he tries, his voice a little more hysteric than he’d like. Apologize, he tells himself. “Want cake?”</p><p>He wants to jump out the window. Take out his axe and impale himself. He settles for kicking himself. Puffy looks at him incredulously, and Niki looks Tired. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>He fidgets in his spot, flour-covered hands tangling together. He forces himself to repeat his offer. “Do you want cake?” </p><p>The laugh that escapes her is almost desperate, and she walks closer to where Niki and Dream are. “Dream,” she says, shaky and wondering, “Is this real?”</p><p>Honestly, he doesn’t think this situation is happening. He was <i>baking</i> with Niki, enjoying it, and suddenly Puffy is here and looking so terribly desperate he wants to steady her and hug her maybe, just maybe. She was always warm. </p><p>“Yeah,” he manages, “and there’s cake.” Why can’t he <i>shut up</i> about cake and—</p><p>He feels a hesitant hand come to rest on his back, Niki’s, he’s sure, and he makes eye contact with Puffy from behind his mask, her gaze searching. She looks more tired than he remembers. It’s been a while, he supposes. Oh, wait, is she—</p><p>Suddenly, her hands loop around his neck, so, so warm like he remembers, and his face is pressed against her shoulder. Something pretty and sweet spreads from his toes to the tips of his fingers, and before he could even think to stop himself his arms go up to wrap around her in return.</p><p>“My little duckling,” she murmurs, achingly soft, and Dream crumbles in her arms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>okay like Dream has done some Bad Shit that I would very much like to punt him into the sun for, but also I like villain characters,,, green boy needs some therapy damn</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Command me to be well</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The word <i>Mom</i> feels new and strange on his lips, but at home all the same.</p><p>And so he leaves with the desserts he came there for. He has enough to share.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Everyone who commented last chapter I want to say you guys are all very sexy </p><p>Also I honestly did not mean for this fic to have Dream using food as a means to apologize but IT WON’T BE LIKE THIS FOR THE WHOLE FIC I PROMISE. LIKE STARTING HERE MAYBE. He’s learning to talk like a normal human being wow amazing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All in all, the cake turned out well. Something like pride swells in his chest, but not the kind he has when he wins a battle, or when he wins a Manhunt and outwits an opponent. This kind of pride is more soft, but not gentle, and makes him revel at the sight of Puffy and Niki taking a second slice from the cake. </p><p>Well, he didn’t make the cake by himself, but he helped a lot. That was enough. </p><p>Puffy watches him, but this time with a mix of hesitant wariness and disbelieving wonderment. Her eyes trail over his mask for a long moment, before she cuts out a piece of cake and quietly slides it over to him. </p><p>“Eat,” she says, a motherly smile shown, “you made this after all.”</p><p>He nods, fiddling with his mask. Pushing it up enough to just reveal his lips, he takes a piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth. Sweet, he thinks, his tongue swiping over his lips for another taste of sugar. Better than his attempts with Sam and Punz, although he would say baking with them was more entertaining. </p><p>“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking another piece of cake. “S’ pretty good.”</p><p>“It is,” Niki hums thoughtfully, already finished with her second piece of cake. </p><p>They asked no questions, making light conversation with each other that he was painfully inept at. He’s usually striking deals, whispering threats, and singing cruel lies, not making casual talk. He sits awkwardly in his chair, silently scooping up the last piece of his cake. He licks off the frosting and sets his fork down, deciding not to bother Niki and Puffy’s conversation. His leg bounces up and down, his need to move making him fidget. </p><p>Niki casts a brief look towards him and taps her knuckles on the table to get his attention. His head snaps to her, and she gives him a tiny smile. “Would you like me to get some more desserts for you to bring home?”</p><p>He blinks, processing her question before letting out a noise of protest. “Oh, I’d need to pay for that, hold on—”</p><p>“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head as she slides her chair out to stand up. “Consider it a thanks for…  for the help.” </p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Duckling, it’s fine,” Puffy cuts in, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>He feels something uncomfortable settling in him that makes him want to get up and run and run and <i>run</i> because this is something they’re giving him for free, and he’s learned the hard way that nothing in life is <i>ever</i> free. He’ll owe them, even if it’s just cake, but the thought of an unpaid debt makes his gut churn. </p><p>“No, I couldn’t,” he says to them, more for his own sake than theirs. He lets out a harsh breath, trying to get the proper words out to explain this is something he needs to do. He has to pay them back, because <i>them</i> giving <i>him</i> something as a gift just doesn’t sit right with him; it feels wrong, and it’s a feeling that he knows will fester in him unless he pays them back.</p><p>“Dream, it’s a gift,” Puffy tells him, as if he didn’t already know that, as if that wasn’t the reason he didn’t want to accept it at all. She wouldn’t know, he knows, he <i>knows</i> this, but he feels his fingers dig into his palm hard enough to break skin. </p><p>“I don’t deserve this,” he tries to speak out loud. Nothing comes out. He tries again, his words more stiff. “I can’t take it,” he quietly says, this time the words actually tumbling out. “I <i>can’t</i>, please let me pay you for it.” The desperation in his voice is a little too clear than what would have made him comfortable, but he can’t take back words.</p><p>Niki pauses, then sighs. “Fine. If you really want to.”</p><p>He nods twice, a rush of a relieving calm coming over him. “Thank you.”</p><p>Puffy lets out a small amused huff. “‘Thank you’? You’re the one paying for it, we should be thanking <i>you</i>.” </p><p>Again, that sense of uneasiness comes over him, because why should they <i>thank</i> him? It feels wrong, <i>wrong</i>, but this time he doesn’t let on his discomfort. </p><p>“It’s okay,” he says, holding up his hand in assurance. His mask is cold against his skin, but the familiarity is comforting enough where he can’t bring himself to gather the will to take it off his face. </p><p>Niki disappears out of the room they were in to get some of the desserts for him, casting one last glance at the both of them before leaving. Dream realizes a second after that he’s alone with Puffy now. </p><p>( <i>“Do</i> not <i>act like you know me.”</i> </p><p>
  <i>“I’m your mother! Please just talk to me!”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The distance between them spanned a lifetime and five, and she is left pushing and screaming against a boulder between her and him. His lips twist into a sneer, faux kindness in his words.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Puffy,” he says, and it sounds so void of the emotions she knows he feels so much. She never thought hearing her name from his lips would ever be so</i> heart-breaking. <i>“I think you need to go.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She steps back.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Long gone, something whispers to her, he’s long gone.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She knows, she</i> knows, <i>yet—</i>
</p><p><i>Yet—</i> )</p><p>“Duckling,” she whispers, the nickname bittersweet on her tongue. “What happened?”</p><p>He stares at the empty cake plate, his palms stinging with pain. </p><p>“I thought for a bit,” his voice steadier than before. His throat bobs, uncertain. “I guess you could say my head caught up with me.” Dream stubbornly fixes his gaze on the table, on the empty cake plate still. His palms still hurt. “Is— is it too late?”</p><p>“I can’t speak for everyone,” Puffy murmurs, her hand moving towards his. Her fingers rub his scarred knuckles gently. “But duckling, I want you to <i>talk</i> to me.”</p><p>Talk.</p><p>He thinks he’s been doing a lot of that.</p><p>Ignoring the dull throbbing of his palms, he lifts his other hand to put over Puffy’s. The action is foreign to him—he’s so damn <i>touch-starved</i>—and his hand slightly shakes from doing it. He blinks repeatedly, feeling heat burn behind his eyes.</p><p>“About before,” he starts, his hands tensing, “Everything I said. I just want you to— to know. I didn’t mean it. Never did.”</p><p>Not gone, something whispers to her, still here.</p><p>She smiles, all warmth and kind. She squeezes his hand, and that’s all they say out loud.</p><p>—</p><p>Dream exits the bakery with a bag of an assortment of desserts and a lighter wallet. He feels a light contentment. A new feeling that he thinks is nice.</p><p>Maybe he should try to drop off some of these to Sam and Punz. It’s a thought to consider. He did make some of these himself. He lifts his gaze from the food to redirect it in front of him. His steps don’t feel as heavy as before.</p><p>It’s one of the better days, he decides. </p><p>Walking along the road, his gaze wanders to observe the scenery. Buildings stretched up high, and greenery fluttering peacefully with the wind. This was what they all built, all this in—</p><p>In his server.</p><p> He falters in his steps for a split second, then resumes his gait. The words repeat.</p><p>His server. </p><p>His to have.</p><p>His to control. </p><p>He stops himself. His free hand goes to grab his wrist, squeezing it as tight as he could, hard enough for bruises to bloom on his skin. He stays like that for a long while, bag in hand and purple and blue painting his flesh. </p><p>The need, the urge, to have everything under <i>his</i> control bubbles underneath the surface, something he had just barely managed to keep down, but the idea of everything going somewhere he doesn’t expect, something happening without him to plan it makes his grip on his wrist only tighten. </p><p>Then he releases his wrist. He shouldn’t have done that, hurting his wrist. What happens if he needs to fight? Then he’ll just be defenseless, and god, he’s so stupid and an idiot and selfish and paranoid—</p><p>Something moves out of the corner of his eyes. The movement snaps him out of his daze.</p><p>It’s a familiar boy.</p><p>Dream grounds his teeth, willing him to look away. Not his problem, he tells himself, nothing he needs to concern himself with. </p><p><i>Are you redeemable?</i> his mask asks, the smile on it searing. </p><p>He nears the boy who was hunched over, cautiously hovering a few feet away because what do you do when you see a kid who’s tired and hurt and scared because of you?</p><p>Usually, you don’t bother him when he’s at his lowest, like right now.</p><p>He glances at his bag of desserts. Well. Idea.</p><p>He takes out the box where the pumpkin pie was in, briefly mourning it for a quick second before holding it out carefully in his hands, then taps him on the shoulder. The boy immediately reacts and shoots up, head whipping around for who did it, and eyes meet with Dream’s mask.</p><p>Tubbo yelps and takes a fearful step back. Dream pretends he doesn’t notice.</p><p>“Um,” Dream starts, awkwardly, trying to ignore the wide scared eyes of Tubbo. It’s easier not to think about it. “Do you want pie?”</p><p>Tubbo gapes at him, shock coloring his features and blanketing his fear. “I— what?”</p><p>Dream lowers his arms. “You must be hungry,” he says, looking over the younger boy and not missing his flinch. “I got a lot of food from Niki’s bakery. I mean, more like desserts, but. Yeah.”</p><p>The boy was speechless for a good few seconds before a frown scrunched up on his face. His voice was hard and gritty, as if trying to sound older than he really was but he was just so very tired. </p><p>“Dream, what are you trying to do?” </p><p>Something seems to weigh him down, heavy and choking, and Dream realizes this is guilt, and it crashes into him like a tidal wave. He pauses. </p><p>“Tubbo,” he says carefully, “do you want to be president?”</p><p>The question seems to startle him, his shoulders jolting as he stares at Dream looking so lost. Dream sees the bags under his eyes, the weariness that dragged his every movement, and bites his lips. </p><p>“I’m not sure what you mean,” Tubbo answers plainly, shifting into a subtly defensive stature. He doesn’t let down his guard at all. “Are you trying to test me? Look, I’m already president, and I have things to do, so if that’s all you need to say, I’ll be leaving.”</p><p>Dream furrows his eyebrows, fingers tapping against the box where the pumpkin pie was in. How does he approach this?</p><p>“Then as president,” he says, “maybe you shouldn’t be walking around that tired.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>“As president,” Dream repeats, “maybe sleep properly and feed yourself.”</p><p>Tubbo scowls, but it’s nothing malicious, just exhausted and frustrated at everything and at him. “Who are you to say that?” he bites out, hands clenched into tight fists. “You don’t— you don’t get to say things like that to me. I’m president because—”</p><p>“Because of me,” Dream finishes flatly. “I know.”</p><p>A tense silence blankets the two, Tubbo glaring at the other as if trying to burn holes in the porcelain mask. There’s no sign of the boy of bees and laughter in the boy in the suit in front of him. </p><p>“But my point still stands.” Dream sets the pumpkin pie nearby, making sure not to get too close to the other boy. “You look like a stick,” he points out bluntly, “and you’re in no shape to rule a country. So just.” He gestures to the pie. “Eat that, at least.”</p><p>Tubbo blinks, then his eyes dart over to the pie suspiciously. “Is that—”</p><p>“Not poisoned,” Dream cuts in again. He moves back, away from Tubbo to give him space. “If it helps to know, I made this with Niki.”</p><p>He doesn’t make a move to grab it, only giving a poorly hidden longing glance at it before looking back at Dream. Only pursing his lips, Dream understands Tubbo’s hesitance and backs away more, giving him a final nod. </p><p>“Well then,” he says, tilting his head in a curt goodbye. “Rest well and enjoy the pie.”</p><p>He turns his back to the boy, keeping his gaze ahead. He’s done what he can, he thinks, for him. Maybe another time he’d help more, but Dream is a selfish man who thinks he’s done enough. He’s tired too. </p><p>He tries not to think about the way Tubbo looked. </p><p>A small sting of pain flashed in his hands, and he looks to see the wound he inflicted on his palms himself from before. Ah. It’s started bleeding. </p><p>He balls his hand into a fist and tucks it into his pocket.</p><p>( Tubbo stares at his retreating back, the green hoodie disappearing into the distance. He looks back at the pie, then thinks about his question.</p><p>
  <i>“Do you want to be president?”</i>
</p><p>There’s a lot of answers he could say, even if it was a yes or no question. One that sits eagerly on his tongue is—</p><p>He stops his train of thought.</p><p>He takes the pie. </p><p>It was never a choice of if he <i>wanted</i> to anyways. )</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hm. the pacing is off. OH WELL, THAT'S A PROBLEM FOR FUTURE ME</p><p>no beta we die like my sleep schedule</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pagan of Chaos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream visits three places.</p><p>His mind, a forest, and a little clearing he thinks a boy of bees would like.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dream comes home that night, he takes out his axe for the first time in a long while. </p><p>It’s a beautiful thing, the way the netherite gleamed under the shimmer of moonlight, the way how as he dragged the pad of his finger along the blade’s edge it drew blood, the way the magic and enchantments danced on its surface like prayers close enough to touch.</p><p>His hands brush against it, feather-light soft. Cold air cools his skin, his mask sitting by his side, its smile empty. Then he grabs the handle, wielding it, and now he feels like he is Dream the Hunter, the Admin, the Tyrant, and he is all of those without the mask. </p><p>The thought burns his skin, scalds it in the fires of fury and rage and overwhelming guilt, yet he can feel the frost that weaves itself inside his walls. It hurts enough to make his knees buckle, and the netherite axe in his hand becomes heavier. When he looks at it, it is dyed in red that drips slowly down its blade to the wooden floor.</p><p>His eyes widen. When did— when did that get there—? </p><p>A hand gently cups his cheek, its skin frigid, and guides his face to look ahead of him. </p><p>Bodies, all of them; they lay in front of him bloodied and so very <i>dead</i>. Their eyes unseeing, crimson dyed skin, and still hearts greet his eyes, and he spots broken goggles, a stained bandana, placid black hands that lifelessly lay on the floor. He sees orange, blond, brown, red, red, <i>red</i>, until it all blurs together into something he can’t—won’t—look at, something he blocks out and can’t see. </p><p>The world spins around him, dizzyingly and off-kilter. He blinks, stumbling, trying to grab any semblance of balance, and suddenly he’s falling. </p><p>He doesn’t hit ground.</p><p>Now Dream is alone, in a dark, dark room, nothingness stretching out for forever. Panic rises in his throat, but he clamps it down and steadies his grip on his axe. He tries to call out, but the words are forcefully stopped as they almost leave his lips, something choking him. </p><p>A torrent of hacks and coughs escapes him, blood trailing down his chin, and his shoulders shake at the pain that shoots through his ribs and pierces his heart. His axe clatters to the ground with a loud <i>clang</i>, but he doesn’t have the mind to pay it any attention as his hands fly to his throat in an attempt to stop the ceaseless coughs. </p><p>It felt as if his throat was being ripped apart to shreds, and he barely managed to stay on his feet as he keeled over, clumps of blood splattering on the black floor. As he lifts his head, the room he’s in seems to shimmer, as if it were a mirage, then the walls brighten until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. </p><p>Then the light fades, and his eyes flutter open again, only to be met with the sight of countless mirrors surrounding him. </p><p>A shaky gasp leaves him, his head spinning as he twists around, only seeing him and him and <i>him</i>, and that godforsaken <i>mask</i> in his reflection, even if he wasn’t wearing it. His hands weave themselves through his tangled mess of hair, and unshed tears sear behind his eyes, yet none fall. </p><p>The Dream in the reflection suddenly shakes, his shoulder heaving up and down, before his head is thrown back as a loud hysteric cackle echoes in the mirror room. Then his head comes back down, his body tilting forward closer to Dream without the mask, only glass separating them.</p><p>Dream wonders who’s the real one, between the two of them, from both sides of the glass.</p><p>“Dream,” the not-Dream rumbles, voice gravelly and mocking, “what are you <i>doing?</i>”</p><p>The man in question stills, red sticking to his fingers. A wave of anger and blackened rage clouds his head, and he snarls, “Fuck off! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” In a flash, his bloodied fists smash against glass, shattering it into shards that cut deep into bone. </p><p>It’s only one out of many, and the not-Dream laughs again, still surrounding him. </p><p>“Please, look at what you’re doing!” The not-Dream spreads his arms, the smile on mask appearing to widen, “Pathetic! Why do you have to seek forgiveness? You think you need something like that?” Then not-Dream pauses, hands lowering and his voice quieter but so much more malicious. “You think you <i>deserve</i> it?”</p><p>“You don’t know me,” Dream grits out while ignoring how every word felt like blades dragging themselves through his flesh, glass shards stuck in his fist and stained with red as he spins around to the next mirror. “Stop talking like you do!”</p><p>The reflection falls silent, hands coming to rest on his sides. His head is slightly lowered, then a hand rises up to hold his forehead, a quiet wheeze bouncing against the walls. “I <i>am</i> you,” he laughs out distortedly, the porcelain mask starting to crack apart. “Amazing, how blind you are to yourself Dream! Amazing! This is your server to reign! It’s about time you <i>realize</i> that.”</p><p>Porcelain falls to the floor, the white pieces flying across the floor upon impact, and Dream meets face to face with the same green eyes of his he hasn’t seen in years. </p><p>“How long has it been since you’ve seen yourself?” his reflection asks, his hand coming to rest on the glass separating them. “How long are you going to keep up with this sad charade of yours?”</p><p>Dream’s whole body shakes, and he so hates his reflection because he is smiling without the mask, and Dream isn’t, and he feels too, too bare.</p><p>Not-Dream leans closer, his cracked lips moving slowly. “Dream,” he says lowly, “Dream, you could rule the <i>world</i>.”</p><p>His eyes snap open as he sits up in a hazy rush, the blankets tangled between his legs shifting as he moves around frantically. His hands wander around his face, feeling no blood or fresh wounds, and he clenches his eyes shut again in a weak attempt to block out everything. Shallow breaths shudder out, and nothing but a fear-induced adrenaline courses through his veins.</p><p>He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep like this. </p><p>Throwing his blanket off his legs, his feet meet the cold floor beneath him. He gulps, remembering the pain that laced his throat that felt so real just moments ago, and massages it gently. Poisonous words echo in his head over and over and over.</p><p>( <i>“You think you</i> deserve <i>it?”</i> )</p><p>He stands up, eyes drilling holes into the wooden walls around him. Water, he decides, would do him good right now. Trudging out of his room, he walks to the dim kitchen, making sure to flick on the lights. The dark reminded him of that damn nightmare.</p><p>Pouring himself a glass of water, he chugs half of it down in one go before almost slamming it back down on the table. He makes sure to restrain himself, knowing he really wouldn’t be in the mood to clean up any mess that would result in. His feet shuffle in place, then his brows furrow together in frustration because he needed to move.</p><p>He walks back to his room, the sight of his axe making him tense for a moment before he opts for his netherite sword. Taking it from his enderchest, he hastily pulls on his green hoodie and pants and moves to grab his mask, his fingers stopping just a few inches away from it. </p><p>( The mask is another him, he wants to think. </p><p><i>“How long has it been since you’ve seen yourself?”</i> )</p><p>He puts it on with a resigned finality and heads out. </p><p>The rush of nighttime air against his skin was refreshing, and he takes the time to savor it. The sword in his hand isn’t as familiar as his usual axe, but now, the comfort he takes in it was much more. </p><p>Dream doesn’t want to think about what he’s done with it.</p><p>So he readjusts his grip on his sword, and goes out into the darkness, where he knows he can find the monsters he can slaughter without looking at his own. </p><p>And he does find them. His sword pierces rotting flesh and tears apart bone when he sees them lurking in the forest, and no blood drips down its blade because monsters do not bleed red. The monsters of night, their hisses and groans, their hunger and mindlessness—they do not bleed red like humans do, so what is there to think about Dream, the monster who bleeds and wears human skin?</p><p>The fatigue that settles in his muscles sets in after hours spent roaming and killing and making sure he can’t do anything but hunt.</p><p>As another of the undead falls to the ground, head rolling, Dream collapses onto the ground, back leaning against a nearby tree. His shoulders move up and down as his chest rises desperately for breath, and for a beautiful moment, he doesn’t think about anything but the rise of the sun in the distance. </p><p>( <i>“Look, George, everything the light touches is our kingdom.”</i></p><p>
  <i>George raises a hand over his eyes, watching with unhidden awe as the sunlight danced across the rolling fields and painted the buildings a shimmering gold.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“A king’s time as a ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, George, the sun will set on my time here and rise with you.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The both of them turn to the horizon, a grin gracing Dream’s lips.</i>
</p><p><i>“As the new king.”</i>)</p><p>Dream stands up, shakily, the sword serving as his temporary crutch for the moment, and he finds himself staring down at the decaying corpse of the undead that lay at his feet. </p><p>Its green flesh wafted its putrid scent into the air, and Dream intimately remembers this as the scent of death. He takes in the smell, one he had once reveled in, and turns away. </p><p>No sleep again today. He has a feeling that streak wasn’t going to end anytime soon. </p><p>Every step he takes sends a jolt of pain that reminds him he is human—not an unfeeling monster, not a god, but he is real and <i>human</i>—and he forces himself to head back to his house. Dirt and gore cover his weapon, slick and sickening to look at. But he’s used to it, so he regards it with little thought. With a small flick of the sword, some of it flies off into the undergrowth he treads on. </p><p>The trees around him sway with the breeze that brushes against him, shadows waving along the grass and bushes scattered around. It’d be more calming if he had come here without the intent to release everything he had kept coiled up inside. The carnage he left behind was proof of that.</p><p>Not that anyone else would see. The remains would fade soon enough. </p><p>Continuing on, he finally makes it out of the forest when the sun has almost completely risen from under the horizon. He’s spent a while in there, but the hours blurred together. As Dream takes another step forward, he hears something snap behind him. </p><p>Immediately, he swings around, holding his sword out, only to see a boy standing at the edge of his blade. His lips part in surprise.</p><p>“Tubbo?”</p><p>The boy in question gives a small nod, slightly trembling at the sword held at his neck. Dream notices and lowers the sword after realizing who it was.</p><p>“Tubbo,” he says again, firmer, “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Tubbo shuffles backward, hands tangling together as his eyes fly back and forth between them and Dream. “Was just taking a walk,” he murmurs, “I dunno. Maybe find some bees or something.” </p><p>And Dream is reminded again with the thought that this was a <i>teenager</i>, a child holding the responsibility of running a country with people who didn’t believe in him, a <i>child</i> tasked with running a country with the weight of his predecessor’s legacy hanging above him like a death sentence. </p><p>And then he thinks that this was on him.</p><p>( <i>“You think you</i> deserve <i>it?”</i> )</p><p>“Oh,” Dream says back, because that’s the only thing he can say to a boy he’s put through hell and back. “Did you eat?”</p><p>Tubbo lifts his head to look at Dream, eyes stalling upon falling on the mask. “Yeah,” he answers after a moment. “The pie. The pie was good.”</p><p>“That’s good to hear.” Dream tilts his head to take a better look at the boy, ignoring the tightening of his chest the longer he does. “But I’m guessing you didn’t get too much sleep today, considering you’re here with me right now.”</p><p>Tubbo’s shoulders slump, his skin pale. “Yeah,” he answers again, rhythmically, monotonously. His gaze on Dream was wary, skeptical. “Couldn’t stay asleep for too long.”</p><p>The green-hooded man stands there, debating with himself on what to do, feeling the lull of exhaustion take its toll on him. Then he looks again at the boy, and decides what he was going to do.</p><p>“Tubbo,” he quietly says, “Are you fine with coming with me for a bit?”</p><p>The boy stares at him, eyes widening, then narrows them in suspicion. “Coming with you?” he asks, raising a brow. “Coming where?”</p><p>“There’s a place I know,” Dream says, sheathing his sword. “No one’s been there before. Well, not yet. I’m sure somebody is going to eventually find it soon. I don’t go there very often myself actually.” He licks his lips, feeling them go dry. “I think you’ll like it. But I know you probably don’t want to come with me with all that’s—”</p><p>“I’ll go,” Tubbo blurts out, a second later looking surprised at his own words. His expression scrunches into a mix of too many emotions to read at once, but Dream starts to speak before he could.</p><p>“You can go anytime if you don’t want to,” he tells him, rubbing the back of his neck in what Tubbo thinks is <i>nervousness</i>, which is strange and foreign and so, so unfitting of everyone’s image of him because Dream is the man who rules with an iron fist and a mask of steel; is he someone who gets nervous? </p><p>Tubbo thinks of a Dream before the wars. </p><p>“This place of yours,” Tubbo says, “Can you take me to it?”</p><p>For some reason, he gets the feeling that Dream is smiling at him. Not his self-satisfied smirk, or his cunning grin, but his small one that’s sincere and genuine and real. He gulps, throat suddenly feeling dry and scratchy. There’s no way. He’s imagining things. Thinking up things he wants to believe and delude himself with.</p><p>This man. This, this <i>Dream</i>; <i>he’s</i> the reason Tommy is exiled and—</p><p>“Let’s go then,” Dream says, voice almost soft, but not quite. He beckons to him, taking out a compass from his pocket, and walks into another direction in the forest than what he had previously come from. “I— I promise I won’t hurt you.”</p><p>Tubbo wishes he really believed that. </p><p>Dream leads him through the trees, and a silence between two people who’ve been fighting against each other for so long they almost forget when they haven’t settled over them. Tubbo keeps his eyes on the man and the crisp leaves that crunched under his feet. He doesn’t know how far they’ve walked, the area becoming unfamiliar, and he feels fear rising up and spreading to his fingertips. </p><p>He doesn’t know where he is. Why did he agree to this? This was Dream, the enemy, the evil, the villain, and he just <i>agreed</i> to going somewhere he doesn’t know with him—</p><p>Tubbo slams into Dream’s back, and he lets out a strangled yelp as he stumbled backwards, hands cradling his nose. </p><p>“Ack—!” He gathers his footing and frowns. “Why’d you stop?”</p><p>Dream doesn’t answer, his body still. </p><p>“We’re here,” he says finally. Then when he turned his head to face Tubbo, his stare felt as if he could read every thought in his mind. But if he did know, he didn’t let it show, and simply gestured to ahead of them. “Here it is.”</p><p>Tubbo looks from behind Dream and sees a small clearing, colorful flowers peeking from below overgrown grass and bee hives hanging from the trees that surrounded the area. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, and bees buzzed peacefully among it. </p><p>“What— what is this?” </p><p>Dream answers by lightly pushing him forward, the warmth of the sun dawning on his skin as he almost falls forward. A noise of shock leaves his throat despite himself. </p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“You looked like you were just going to stand there until I did something,” Dream says to him, an undertone of amusement in his voice. He steps in to enter the clearing as well alongside Tubbo, his mask in the sunlight almost ethereal. “So. Do you like it?”</p><p>Tubbo only walks forward, head swiveling around to look in awe of the clearing. His hand reaches out to one of the hovering bees, mouth parted in amazement. Then he seems to realize who he’s with, and spins around to Dream, unwilling to have his back to him.</p><p>Dream understands, he really does, but it doesn’t stop the guilt, the hurt, that stabs and pricks his skin like needles. </p><p>“I don’t come here a lot,” he finds himself repeating, “so if you ever want to get away or rest or anything, well, here’s a place. If you don’t remember how to get here, I can give you a compass that’ll lead you here.” </p><p>The boy purses his lips, giving a long glance around. As he does, some of the tension in his form melts, and he looks back.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, barely a whisper, “I’d like that.”</p><p>They both move forward, and Dream takes out the compass he had used to get here and leaves it in Tubbo’s hands. </p><p>“Wait, but if I have this, how will you…?”</p><p>Dream shakes his head. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I know how to get here without it. The compass just helps sometimes. Not that I’ll come here a lot.” </p><p>Tubbo’s brows scrunch together in thought, contemplatively, as if testing out the words in his head, before he asks him carefully, “Do you want to watch the bees with me?”</p><p>Taken by surprise, Dream is rendered speechless for a brief moment. Then he adjusts his mask, and nods curtly. </p><p>“I… wouldn’t mind that.”</p><p>And Tubbo smiles. Dream feels his own smile growing on his own lips when he sees for once, he looks like the boy of bees.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In today’s chapter: I don’t know how to write nightmares but I try anyways because that’s spicy and sexy of me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Innocence died screaming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream, after talking so damn long, thinks its time he uses the weapons he has at his disposal for his own way of conversing.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh my god,,, this chapter took me so long to finally write. I DON'T KNOW WHY it just was so hard to write this one </p>
<p>The last part is ehhh but I've done so much revising and deleting already so :,) sorry for the shortish chapter</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream’s venture out into the woods allowed him to release much of the pent-up energy he needed to get out. Especially with that nightmare of his. </p>
<p>But even after he came back home after being with Tubbo—it was <i>nice, too nice,</i> and it felt horribly undeserved for a man like him to get any kind of forgiveness from anybody—his hands itched to hold his weapon and move and fight and <i>spar.</i></p>
<p>—spar.</p>
<p>Oh. </p>
<p>He thinks he misses fighting the half-piglin.</p>
<p>He tells himself it’s the euphoria, the thrill of the notion that he’s someone who can fight on equal terms with someone who has earned the title of a god amongst men. Not that he actually <i>misses</i> him. </p>
<p>He is mortal, a man, and he’d do anything to feel otherwise.</p>
<p>Collapsing on his bed, his sword clattering on the ground, he stares at the walls absentmindedly. His eyes trace the oak, his face pressed against his bedsheets. He does what he knows never ends well: he thinks.</p>
<p>
  <i>Redeemable?</i>
</p>
<p><i>“You think you</i> deserve <i>it?”</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Pathetic waste.</i>
</p>
<p><i>“You could rule the</i> world<i>.”</i></p>
<p>He rolls over, clenching his eyes shut as his fingers curl around the blankets tightly.</p>
<p>Even if he was happy that he could have a conversation with no violence in weapons nor words, just something civil with people he had hurt, even if he felt lighter now that there was, no matter how small, a chance of forgiveness—</p>
<p>Dream was never a man of peace.</p>
<p>Perhaps now regret and remorse have finally come after him like hellhounds dogging after his every step, but things like that don’t stop someone like Dream who thrives on chaos. See, the thing is, a thirst for power and emotions such as guilt and ruefulness don’t do well on a sinner’s shoulders, because what’s a sinner to do when with every damning thing he does adds another chain to his shackles? </p>
<p>He may not be weak—he <i>isn’t</i>—but there’s no helping it when chaos’s beauty made a slave of him. </p>
<p>It breathed burning kisses against his shoulders, where his scars and the weight of his world joined and melded with his skin and flesh. It kissed him godless and whispered in his ear, <i>Wear that mask, that porcelain forged of sin, and we go out and slay kings.</i></p>
<p>What is heaven to a tyrant’s greed anyways? </p>
<p>What has heaven’s got that he can’t take for himself out there with his own hands?</p>
<p>( More than he thought, really, it’s made painfully clear to him in the way he spends days alone, in the way there’s nobody out there who isn’t wary of him, in the way he <i>feels</i> regret in the first place because he’s done things that makes him realize—</p>
<p>What has hell got that makes him so determined to reach it? )</p>
<p>He’s made a purgatory out of his homeland; there’s a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the center of the flames.</p>
<p>Sitting himself up, he rests his back against the walls while massaging his temple. His mask is left by his bedside, and for once, for a brief moment, he doesn’t want to put it on. The feeling of his calloused hands against his bare face is refreshing, but a reminder that he’s new to being in his own skin. </p>
<p>It’s midday. How long had he spent in that clearing with Tubbo? Whatever the time, he stores the sight of a boy who looked free and unburdened even if for only a few hours into his mind. </p>
<p>He shoves the want to find someone to spar with him, to fight, and heads to the kitchen, almost on autopilot. Maybe some food would help. </p>
<p>Checking where he stores his food, he looks through it before his eyes land on potatoes. His grip falters on the chest. He grits his teeth, feeling an oncoming headache starting to stir in the back of his head. </p>
<p>Is everything he looks at going to remind him of apologies left unsaid? He almost wishes he never felt like this at all, never woke up to see himself tearing apart what he had built because he was on some power trip. </p>
<p>This headache wasn’t going to go away soon. He knows because this isn’t the first time. Guilt does things like that, makes him not want to get up from bed, makes him think too much, makes him have and do things he didn’t before all because he <i>knows</i> what he did. </p>
<p>Sometimes he wishes he was the unfeeling tyrant everyone had believed him to be. It’d be easier, Dream thinks.</p>
<p>He takes the potatoes, his axe, and mask, then takes off for a fight he thinks is about time he stopped running from.</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>It’s cold where Technoblade lives. </p>
<p>Dream knows this, just the same as he knows the man’s love for his potato farms, his hate of government, and his ever magnetic need for chaos, just like Dream himself. </p>
<p>The difference is, now, one of them has sworn that off, and the other is dealing with the regrets that come with it. </p>
<p>The snow is soft underneath his feet, footprints leaving a trail behind him as he pads his way through the white landscape to the wooden cabin in the distance. Frigid wind bites through the green cloth of his hoodie, and his mask keeps it from reaching his face. </p>
<p>Looking around, he hesitates for a moment before walking up the stairs to the entrance and tentatively knocking on his door. It’s a few seconds standing outside until the door swings open, and once-allies stare at each other.</p>
<p>Unlike the others, Technoblade doesn’t immediately go defensive and tense, nor does he get ready to flee or fight. He only stands by the door, expression surprised and stature almost relaxed.</p>
<p>It’s not because he trusts Dream. </p>
<p>He is the one they call the Blood God, with the red that dyes his trident and the velvet of his cape, with the gold of the crown that sits atop of his head; there is no reason for him to cower when faced with Dream. </p>
<p>The masked man wonders if he should be relieved by this. </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Technoblade asks, voice monotone and flat. His red eyes seemed to pierce through his mask, and Dream breathes out to calm himself.</p>
<p>“Spar with me.”</p>
<p>Technoblade looks at him sharply, leaning back at his sudden offer. “Excuse me?”</p>
<p>“You heard me,” Dream says, and in a bold move he whips out his netherite axe, gleaming with enchantments. All his frustrations come spilling into his head, and the urge to release it all right now overwhelms him. “Fight me right now.”</p>
<p>“You’re acting awfully rude, barging in here demanding for a fight,” Technoblade drawls, tilting his head. Something in his eyes scream danger, and Dream feels adrenaline coursing through his veins; this is what he wanted, a <i>fight.</i> ( Talking is <i>hard</i>. ) Technoblade removes himself from his cabin, stepping forward to look at Dream straight through the porcelain. “What’s got you acting all worked up?”</p>
<p>The thought of being seen through irks him, so Dream can’t help but scoff. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he says, with an air of casualty. “Let’s go with the fact that I’ve been needing a spar. Don’t want to get too rusty.” </p>
<p>The excuse is empty to both of them, and they know it means nothing, so Technoblade doesn’t push further. Instead, he lunges forward with a netherite sword he produced out of nowhere, and Dream instinctively reacts by jumping backwards off the stairs and into the snow.</p>
<p>“C’mon, you came here looking for a fight with me while I was having a nice cup of coffee,” the half-piglin mocks, looking down on Dream from his position on the stairs. “Now you’re running away?”</p>
<p>Dream laughs, and it might’ve been the most genuine ones he let out in a long time. </p>
<p>“You’re going to wish I was,” he taunts back, and when he jumps up, axe in hand, Dream feels alive ( and no headache in sight ).</p>
<p>—</p>
<p>They’re left covered in bruises in the aftermath, and both rest inside Technoblade’s cabin. They keep to themselves for the most part, bandaging themselves up in silence. Surprisingly, the half-piglin is the first to break the quiet.</p>
<p>“Why’d you come here?” he asks, straight to the point. He turns his head to Dream, raising a questioning brow. “I have a hard time believing you came here on an impulse to spar with me.”</p>
<p>Dream keeps silent, flexing his hand as white cloth wraps around it. He looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, pondering over his words.</p>
<p>“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to give you some potatoes?”</p>
<p>A beat of silence passes.</p>
<p>Another.</p>
<p>And then—</p>
<p>“Oh my god, you’re joking.” Technoblade snorts, his hand flying up to his face in a poor attempt to smother his laughter. “You have to be. There’s no way you came here just for that.”</p>
<p>“It’s part of it,” Dream says irritably, mouth twitching in annoyance from the sound of Technoblade’s muffled laughter from behind him. “I <i>did</i> want to spar. I was feeling restless.” </p>
<p>“You’re ridiculous,” Technoblade retorts, “Coming in here just for that.”</p>
<p>In response, a bag gets thrown at him, and he barely manages to catch it. He opens it as Dream’s voice echoes in front of him. </p>
<p>“It’s for your farm,” he says, voice steady. “I don’t know, you probably don’t need any more, since you have a shit ton already.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Technoblade says after a pause, glancing at the bag then back at Dream. “For the potatoes.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Dream says, obligatory, to fill the silence that threatens to blanket them again. For some reason, he doesn’t want that right now. “Yeah. Um. Consider it a small, uh, parting gift or something.”</p>
<p>Technoblade lifts his head to frown at Dream. “Parting gift?”</p>
<p>Realizing his mistake, Dream tries to backtrack and forces his voice not waver. “Forget what I said, I meant since I kinda just barged in here. I shouldn’t have done that, but I was feeling pretty out of it.” He bites his lip, cursing at himself. “Not that that’s an excuse,” he finishes lamely.</p>
<p>Technoblade studies the other man scrutinizingly, eyes searching him and his mask for something Dream’s not sure he wants to know. Then he leans back into his armchair, expression unreadable.</p>
<p>“Dream” he says slowly, eyes narrowing, “what’s going on.”</p>
<p>“Nothing you need to worry about,” Dreams repeats again, tying up his bandages. Averting the subject, he says to him, “Thanks for uh, putting up with the sudden intrusion.”</p>
<p>The half-piglin knows what he’s trying to do, but he plays along. He wouldn’t gain anything by pushing more at someone like Dream. “I should probably be more angry than I am,” he huffs, keeping an eye on the other’s green hoodie. “I guess I probably needed that fight too. Although you could’ve done better with asking me.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know.”</p>
<p>Technoblade’s brows furrow together in thought, before he asks him, “Do you want to stay for the night?”</p>
<p>Dream side-eyes him curiously, taken a little off guard by the offer. “What?” Technoblade rolls his eyes, nodding his head to the window.</p>
<p>“It’s snowing real hard out there,” he points out dryly. “Don’t think you want to go back in that kind of weather.” Dream observes the storm outside, white smacking dully against the walls and windows. </p>
<p>“I don’t,” he concedes, then turns back to Technoblade. “I’ll take you up on that offer.” </p>
<p>Another silence envelopes them, but this time, more welcome. Dream doesn’t mind this one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me: t-technoblade and dream friendship,, gotta write more</p>
<p>Also me: how do you write a conversation</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Shrine of your lies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rivals talk it out. Dream has a lot more he wants to say than he thought, and Technoblade—</p><p>Well. He reads between the lines.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>OH MAN IM SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG,, and coming back with such a short chapter too, I just wanted to get something out, sorry again 🙏</p><p>The past few weeks have been really busy for me, so I haven’t had the chance to write. School is HELL. hate that  </p><p>I’ll try to update more but my schedule is getting pretty sporadic,,,, BUT I’LL TRY BC I LOVE WRITING THIS FIC</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s surprisingly nice, staying in this cabin with Technoblade.</p><p>They’re at each other’s throats most of the time, as if they hadn’t had enough with fighting with their swords so they’ve decided to use words instead, but Dream knows it’s been a long, long time since he could talk without worrying. </p><p>Although it’d be better if Techno would stop sending him that look of his that seems to scream, <i>‘There’s something going on with you.’</i></p><p>Dream holds back a sigh and pinches himself. He really wasn’t subtle when he said that the potatoes were a <i>parting gift.</i></p><p>What happened to the man whose tongue was dipped in oil and venom, the man who lied more than he spoke the truth? Oh, well, he supposes the last few days have been different. </p><p>Honesty comes out the slightest bit easier. The notion scares him more than he wants to admit.</p><p>( Maybe he did that on purpose. Dropped a hint to see if someone would care. It’s a sad reach, but a lonely man like him holds onto what he can. )</p><p>There’s a fire lit in the fireplace, the flames crackling with warmth. It’s a nice contrast with the cold outside, so he huddles close to it and holds his bare hands near it. </p><p>“Must be nice,” he says absentmindedly, rubbing his palms together while staring into the fire. Orange and gold light flickered and danced on the white of his mask, the smile painted on it almost wistful. “Living here. Must be peaceful.”</p><p>Technoblade’s eyes move towards him, watching his back as he sat in front of the fireplace. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something in the Dream in front of him that’s different from the Dream he saw months ago. What was it?</p><p>“Really?” Techno mumbles, crossing his arms together. “I’d have thought that you’d be interested in a more… exciting spot.”</p><p>An amused laugh escapes Dream, dulled behind the mask, and he tilts his head to face Techno. He could imagine a smile ghosting over the masked man’s lips even if he couldn’t see it. “Maybe,” Dream muses, mostly to himself. “But change is nice, every once in a while.”</p><p>There’s something underneath those words, a question, a plea, that won’t come out and refuses to be acknowledged. Techno finds this, <i>sees</i> it, but he still doesn’t know <i>what</i> it is. It blurs and fades away just as he tries to grasp it, and he’s left looking at fragments. </p><p>“I guess so,” he agrees after a pause, resting his head on the back of his armchair and shrugging. In front of him, Dream’s fingers tap rhythmically against his arm to a beat only he knew as he sat in thought. </p><p>“How’d you get— well, how’d you find that just farming potatoes was… your uh, hobby?”</p><p>Techno raises a brow, a trace of a grin appearing on his lips. “Are you asking me how to get a hobby?”</p><p>“No,” Dream immediately retorts. “I mean, whenever you’re doing it, it looks… relaxing. Calming or something. How’d you find something like that for you?”</p><p>Blinking in surprise at the odd question, Technoblade thinks he’s seeing a little of the shades of Dream that show from behind his cracking mask. </p><p>“...Actually, I’m not sure,” Techno says, his gaze trailing to the ceiling. “It’s…  something I remember I’ve always been doing.” Dream is silent at that, his fingers slowing to a stop. Techno continues. “It’s the routine, I think. And I like potatoes.”</p><p>“You like potatoes,” Dream repeats, his smile clear in his voice. “I can’t say your answer helped too much with my question.”</p><p>“You get what you get.”</p><p>Dream scoffs in reply, though there’s no real bite behind it. He tucks his knees in and wraps his arms around them, staring straight into the firelight. His hood rested on his shoulders, his hair brushing against the back of his neck. </p><p>He looked human. </p><p>Then Technoblade wonders what Dream was when he was wielding his axe in the wars. </p><p>“What was it like in the Nether?” Dream asks. “Living there, I mean.”</p><p>“Are we playing Twenty Questions?” Techno questions him sarcastically, watching the other express more emotions he’s seen in him for too long of a time during this conversation. “I thought we were past that.”</p><p>“Humor me, won’t you?”</p><p>Technoblade shoots him a brief look of suspicion, but concedes. “I only lived there when I was really young, so don’t count on too accurate information,” he says in distaste, “but first thing you have to know: that place is not for someone like you to live in.”</p><p>“Who said I was going to—” </p><p>“Listen to me,” Techno cuts in, abruptly becoming much more serious. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know what’s going on with you. Actually, don't tell me any of that, it’d save me trouble. But I’d suggest you drop whatever you’re thinking about.”</p><p>None of them speaks for a brief moment after that, Dream unnervingly still as Technoblade stares at him with finality. Then Dream sighs.</p><p>“You’re reading too much into a question,” he says, a breathy laugh right after. “I’m just curious. I promise.” </p><p>Technoblade clenches the armrest of the chair he sits on. The man in front of him was a man who switched sides and broke promises just as easily as he said them. Trust is a fragile, delicate thing, and it’s been broken too many times for him to take words at face value.</p><p>“It’s not a good place to live,” he says curtly, his hands moving to rest at the hilt of his blade for comfort. “The residents of the Nether; they don’t know what kindness is. That place is lawless.”</p><p>“I’ve only been to fortresses and bastions for supplies,” Dream murmurs, “so the most interactions I’ve had with their kind were battles. Fights. They’re vicious.”</p><p>“You don’t need to be there long to realize that.”</p><p>The conversation lulls to an end after that, both of them finding no need to try to continue. Dream lets himself fall onto the ground, laying on his back, as he stares at the fireplace in a daze. Technoblade takes to polishing his blade, the netherite sword glowing with enchantments, with cloth. The air settled around them was almost relaxing.</p><p>When was the last time Dream could relax like this? Moments like these were few and far in between, and his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment as he takes it in. </p><p>“Hey,” he says lowly, his voice barely louder than the flickering of the flames. He slightly moves his head to cast a quick glance to Techno. “You remember the favor you owe, right?”</p><p>The cloth that Techno held in his hands crumples between his fingers, but he nods as he answers. “Yeah. What about it?”</p><p>The crackling of the fire fills the odd silence that follows. </p><p>“Nothing,” Dream says finally, turning back. “Just making sure.”</p><p>Techno feels something heavy weighing in his throat, like his mind was telling him there was something he had to see, something that was begging to be seen and noticed; unsaid words were etched into his skin and he couldn’t get it out. </p><p>Dream was changing. Whether it was for the better or worse, Techno didn’t quite know yet. </p><p>“Change is nice,” Techno suddenly says, repeating Dream’s earlier words. He finds himself surprised he started a new conversation himself. “Is that what you’re trying to do?”</p><p>Dream laughs again, but this one is more loud, it shakes his shoulders and has the corner of his lips twisting up in a strange mirth. Techno didn’t see how what he said was that funny, but stayed silent in wait for an answer to his question.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Dream says, honest and raw. And then, with a tinge of thinly veiled hysteria, “I <i>don’t know</i>.”</p><p>Dream tangles his hands through his hair, head bowed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Or— I guess I mean I don’t know what I’m doing, what I am. Because there’s days when I feel like a human being, and then days where I feel like— like anything else.”</p><p>“But it had to be perfect,” he continues, hands tugging at his mask. “Whatever is going to happen to me, whatever is going to come out of me; it just needs to be irreproachable in every way.”</p><p>“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Techno says to him, his frown etching itself onto his face as he leans forward. “There’s no such thing as perfect. You can’t change into something— someone like that.” Dream turns back to Technoblade, and somehow the half-piglin could imagine the look in the man’s eyes behind the mask, all desperate and aggrieved. </p><p>“Why?” Techno asks him, the question so wide and wanting for answers. Dream’s shoulders slump.</p><p>“To make up for it,” Dream says, softly. “To make up for the fact that it’s me.” </p><p>—</p><p>Dream leaves the next day, after the storm has calmed. He leaves behind footprints and lasting words.</p><p>
  <i>“Don’t trip and fall on your way out,” Technoblade says, smirking as Dream swung open the cabin door to exit. Cold air billows in, but both of them hardly react. Dream snorts and shakes his head, his hood back on.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I’m sure you’d love to see that.” Dream steps outside, and gives Techno one last look. “I’ll kick your ass next time we fight.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“As if, nerd. Maybe sort out your existential crisis first.”</i>
</p><p>A small smile peeks out from behind his mask as he walks away from the snowlands. His gloved hands bury themselves in his pockets, and he wonders to himself while looking at the land around him, with all its trees and life. </p><p>Is there a place out there, besides the war-trodden land of the SMP, for him? Is there a place out there where he can live? </p><p>The sky has never seemed so unending before, he realizes. How far does the world go on?</p><p>His silhouette disappears between the trees. He’s gone as quickly as he came.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>uhhh just recently made a new insta: @arsonist_nug for ygs if u want to just chat or something idk. I’m actually kind of bad at messaging so sorry if I take a while to respond. I post some art there and i can take some suggestions of what u want me to draw :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. You’re familiar like my mirror years ago</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream comes to terms that maybe, he isn’t so as unfeeling as he wants to be. He isn’t as <i>strong</i> as he wants to be.</p><p>Then he gets a chance to talk with a man he had once called a brother.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I literally cannot go one chapter without cramming in some kind of introspection or existential crisis for Dream to go through. If I don’t, I think I’ll have a stroke. Writing a chapter with ONLY fluff? Couldn’t be me 🙄</p><p>Also woooo Dream has more than Three Feelings⁉️ Who would’ve thought‼️</p><p>Also also, saw some of the recent streams and can I just say, Dream, what the fuck man. You really just woke up and decided to give the child even MORE trauma 😃😃</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dream doesn’t go straight home when he leaves. </p><p>He is not lost, by any means—years of running and fleeing and fighting off hunters that hounded his every step has made getting lost not an option—but he decides that he doesn’t want to go back to that empty house of his. Not now. </p><p>So he wanders. He brings himself back to the times of old when it was just him and <i>them</i>—the whisper of the names, George and Sapnap echo in his ears—and he walks and runs and climbs wherever he finds himself. Anything to dull out the ache of his head, to calm the twitch of his hands, to feel his blood pumping again.</p><p>The recent days of peace have made him uneasy; he knows this with a leering dread. The uncomfortable crawling of his skin, the growing urge to grab his blade and fight, the want to make sure everybody was following <i>his</i> script—</p><p>He is not a man of peace. And he’s known this from the start, from his roots and beginnings. Dream started his journey with manhunts and battles, and even now he has yet to stray from that path. To heal, to mend; those are things he’s not sure he’s capable of. To <i>run</i> though, is an entirely different matter.</p><p>It would be so much easier to pick back up the puppet strings. It would be so much easier to go back to being the untouchable, the puppeteer behind the stage, the tyrant in control.</p><p>It would be so much easier than healing. </p><p>But Dream, really, when has he ever taken the easy way?</p><p>The trees are daunting in the forest he’s in, standing strong and tall as he weaves through them with practiced ease. Their leaves bristled in the morning air, dry and gentle. It was a calm day, one that he breathed in with the desperation of a man whom peace has rejected.</p><p>From cities to forests, he thinks he belongs to moments like these. Not people, not places; he is not tethered to things like that. He lives with the idea that attachments of those kinds are weaknesses he can’t afford. After all, those are the very things he held against people to control them. Tommy with his discs, Badboyhalo and Skeppy—</p><p>He stops his train of thoughts. The trees around him suddenly felt as if they had eyes, staring him down, the wind around him curling around him as if they were chains, the grass brushing against his skin pricking him like needles. For some reason, he is reminded of obsidian walls and a cold lonely cell. </p><p>The forest didn’t seem so calming anymore. </p><p>Both of his hands fly up to grip at his mask, the only shield he has from the life that glares at him, the life that judges him, and he almost laughs at the bitter irony of the life around him rebuking its creator. </p><p>But this is his server, and if anything, they know the kind of person he is.</p><p>He marches on, slower. His legs burn with fatigue, his chest heaving up and down for breath, but he marches on because this is what serves to distract him from the call of the past. </p><p>Dream’s feet move on its own, his destination ingrained in his muscles, and as much as he wants to turn around he finds himself slowing to a stop.</p><p>The community house stands before him. His hands, slightly shaking, are promptly shoved into his pockets. He grits his teeth, clenching them into fists to stop them. He’s not weak, not foolish enough to show a moment of weakness, even if no one was around. Someone could be, someone could be watching, he just doesn’t <i>see</i> them—</p><p>His nails dig into his palms, trying to stop the paranoia that threatened to overwhelm him. Since when was he so uncertain as to allow this to happen? But any feeling of weakness is quickly, desperately pushed down, because for every new feeling he lets himself feel, <i>that</i> one chokes him, grabs his wrists and chains them together in a way to tell him: You can’t do <i>anything</i>. </p><p>He takes a deep breath in.</p><p>( <i>“Count to ten with me, Dream, take a deep breath in, then out.”</i> )</p><p>He exhales, the fog in his head clearing. </p><p><i>Talk to them,</i> he tells himself. <i>Don’t run.</i></p><p>It’s easier said than done. </p><p>His brows knit together as he slowly approaches the community house. Were any of them even there? Would he even be welcomed? No, of course not, that was obvious. That was why he was <i>here</i> in the first place, wasn’t it? </p><p>Ah, he doesn’t know anymore. </p><p>Dream longs to be who he’s not—honeyed skin and honest smiles—but beneath it all, his blood boils fiercely, with the fervor of a man who was born with heaven and hell already in him; both holy fire, hell fire. It was only a matter of time before one of them consumed him whole. </p><p>( Blood smeared on his mask like war paint, flames blazing behind him; it’s obvious which one did. )</p><p>He takes one more step closer, but it felt as if there were a wall that stretched for an eternity between him and that building, something he can’t touch or see but stops him nonetheless. It takes a moment to piece together why. </p><p>He doesn’t <i>want</i> to go in. </p><p>The thought slams into him, his feet stumbling back, away, further away from the community house, because what does it mean when his mind tells him to go anywhere but the place his friends were? What does it mean when the people he had once thought of as brothers are the same people who he can’t bring himself to face? What does it mean when he doesn’t want to face the consequences of everything he’s done? </p><p>Dream is <i>scared.</i></p><p>Dream is—</p><p>He’s a coward. </p><p>The helplessness from before rises up his throat, tasting of everything numbing and bitter. It’s suffocating. </p><p>Dream is weak. </p><p>He’s <i>scared.</i></p><p>And he doesn’t know what to <i>do</i> when faced with this realization, the very thing he’s been running from. He was doing so well, every turn, every path taken carefully to evade that terrible thought that he isn’t the man who he built himself up to be, nor the man he wants to be.</p><p>He has spent so long thinking of others as balls of emotions to play with, and then running from a life he had torn apart himself with his own hands. If those are not the actions of a coward, he doesn’t know what is. </p><p>Dream knows—<i>acknowledges</i>—few emotions. It’s the best he can do, because anymore makes him feel as if he never had a mask on.</p><p>One is apathy. It’s the one that clings to his skin like frost, the one that let him claim lives and spill blood without batting an eye and makes him cold and distant. He can’t stand it. </p><p>He knows excitement. Hunger. He can feel it in the way his heart thumps loudly against his chest, the way thunder roars in his ears with every step taken leads him closer to victory, the way strings ravel themselves around his fingers and he can move everybody just the way he wants them too. It’s a feeling he’s not sure he wants to keep, because as much as it fuels him, it pushes him off a cliff he’s led himself towards.</p><p>Fury is another he’s well acquainted with, a self-destructive little thing that latches onto him like a parasite. It stokes the embers inside of him, and as the flames grow, ash fills his lungs. He felt it one too many times, and perhaps that is why things ended up the way it did.</p><p>And then there’s betrayal.</p><p>He tries not to think about it. </p><p>( He lied.</p><p>Dream knows and feels too many emotions to count, and it shows in his eyes and the twitch of his mouth and the movement of his hands. He denies it all, but no matter how many firewalls he builds around him there is no stopping the fact he <i>feels</i>. His mask had cracked long ago.</p><p>See, another emotion is disappointment. But that’s related to fury, so he doesn’t count it as one. So he ignores it. </p><p>There’s one more, but he prefers to leave it unnamed. It’s sweet. It’s filling. It’s all warm touches and candied laughter. </p><p>He doesn’t deserve that one. </p><p>And loneliness doesn’t count as one, because it’s already a part of him, long since melded with his bones and muscles until he can’t tell where he ends and it begins. )</p><p>He doesn’t know how long he spent standing there, but he’s snapped out of his daze when the doors of the community house swing open. His lips go dry.</p><p>Sapnap is the one who steps out, white bandana swishing as he shakes his head, grumbling under his breath about something Dream can’t quite hear. Dream doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>Then Sapnap finally sees him, standing across from him on the wooden pathway across from each other, and freezes. </p><p>What does he do? </p><p>“Dream?” Sapnap says, first in faint confusion and then again, but with more disbelief, “<i>Dream?</i>”</p><p>“Hi,” said man says back, because every emotion he feels bubbles up to the surface, yet he can’t identify any of them. “Long time no see.”</p><p>“Long time no— seriously, that’s the first thing you—” Sapnap grinds his teeth together, whether in anger, frustration, or both. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Dream adjusts his mask again. He evens his breath. How did he manage to do this with <i>six</i> other people? And with <i>food</i>? </p><p>“Can we talk?” he asks, more confidently than he felt. Sapnap stares, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Dream hesitates. How does he answer that? Say <i>I’m sorry? Can we be friends again? Sorry for using and treating you like a tool? Sorry for basically saying I don’t give a shit about you guys?</i></p><p>None of those sounded right. </p><p>“I have some godapples to give,” he says instead, and he thinks there’s some weird trend he’s following where the only kind of apology he can come up with is offering some kind of food. It’s been working strangely enough so far, but he’s not sure about this time. Sapnap makes a strange face at his words, sending him a look that disappeared faster than Dream could read it. </p><p>“And?” Sapnap asks, raising a brow.</p><p>“And,” Dream repeats, “if I give them to you, can you let me talk with you?”</p><p>“What are you trying to do here?” Sapnap doesn’t relent on his suspicion, and Dream feels a twinge of hurt. This conversation didn’t look like it was going anywhere, the both of them only asking each other questions. When had they become so distant?</p><p>( <i>Because of</i> you, <i>idiot!</i> his mask whispers to him. <i>Don’t act like you don’t know!</i> )</p><p>“I’m not going to try anything,” Dream tries to appease, raising his hands in surrender. “I just want to talk. <i>Please</i>.”</p><p>The plea escapes his lips before he fully realizes what he said, but by then it doesn’t matter. Words can’t be taken back. Sapnap blinks in surprise, eyes widening at the almost desperate edge to Dream’s voice, and his angry front breaks for a moment.</p><p>Sapnap lets out a shaky breath. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this. “Don’t bother with the godapples,” he mutters, turning back into the community house. The doors, still open, seem to beckon Dream in. Sapnap continues. “Come inside. You get ten minutes.”</p><p>That’s fine, Dream thinks, because he was never one for long talks anyways.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Unraveling right before you; please look away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dream and Sapnap both have their fair share of feelings to sort through. Somehow, they get through the first mess of it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IM SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING RECENTLY I’VE BEEN PROCRASTINATING‼️ But here’s the chapter,, </p><p>I’m so bad at writing confrontations but when I imagine them in my head it’s always better and I hate that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The air between them was perfumed of smoke and remains of burning names, of memories together locked away tight by the chains of wars; too much has happened for friendships such as theirs to not waver, no matter what they previously believed. Blood is not the only thing shed in times of battles. </p><p>Dream is too acutely aware of the fact that all of this is because of him. </p><p>What is he, but fear, and wanting, and anger, and chaos all held together by a cracking mask of porcelain and empty words that oil his tongue? He wants to make up for this—he <i>needs</i> to—because as well as he played into the role of a villain, he’s tired. </p><p>He’s tired. He’s sorry. </p><p>And Sapnap is angry.</p><p>Flames and magma boil under his skin, red of heat pulsing beneath his eyes and flesh and mind. The man of nether birth is angry for all the reasons he should be. Where had it all gone wrong?</p><p>But as much his fury beats in sync with his heart, when he looks at Dream he can’t help but hope, as fruitlessly as it would be, that maybe something’s changed. It’s dangerous to do that. Hope is as bright as it is fragile; it builds up expectations that have two paths to follow: either fail or to succeed. </p><p>To people like them, there’s only one path of the two that’s always taken. </p><p>So here’s the setting: two men battered beyond jagged scars and blood sit across each other in a house that has given rise to beginnings and perhaps today, an end. Two men who have loved and lost sit across each other with too many words, too little time and so much pride between them it forces a quiet of tentative anger and regret. </p><p>Dream is the first to speak.</p><p>“Sapnap,” he starts, the name tasting of lava and fire. Hesitancy leaks through his voice. He deflects. “Are you sure about the godapples?”</p><p>“Yeah, I am.” Sapnap leaves no room for anything else, steely and eyes showing that he was all too feeling. “Get to the point.” </p><p>Dream’s hands twist together, fingers alternating between weaving themselves together and rubbing the edge of his mask. Sapnap watches him with obvious wariness and skepticism. Dream’s used to it, from other people, but from him, it hurts a little more. </p><p>“I—” Dream stops, biting his lips. <i>Sorry</i> tries to force itself past, desperate and clawing, but Dream just can’t <i>let</i> it without feeling pathetic. Because as much as he wants to apologize and repent for all the things he’s done, there’s no stopping the part of himself that screams that there’s no reason he should say sorry.</p><p>( <i>You’ve done what was needed to be done,</i> they screech, <i>so why are you apologizing?</i> </p><p><i>Shut up!</i> he tries to yell back. Once again, nothing comes out.</p><p><i>Your server, your rules.</i> )</p><p>“I— where’s George? And Bad?” He asks instead of saying words that stubbornly refuse to come out. It’s a question he actually does want to know the answer to, but it’s not what he really wants to say. Sapnap notices and narrows his eyes. </p><p>“Out,” he says simply, arms crossed. “Why ask about them? You’re talking to me right now, Dream.”</p><p>“Right,” Dream breathes out, trying to get used to the frost in the usually fiery man’s tone. “Just curious.” A tight smile flits across his face briefly, before he remembers the other couldn’t see it. It disappears just as quick, and he moves his head to look anywhere but at Sapnap. </p><p>“You have eight minutes,” Sapnap says suddenly. “I suggest you stop acting so scared of saying whatever you’re here to say.”</p><p>Dream freezes in place, hands balling together as he takes in what Sapnap just said. Scared? <i>Him?</i> He wasn’t— he wasn’t <i>scared</i>. He’s just thinking of the right words to tell him what he wants to say.</p><p>Then he remembers when he came here and he couldn’t even step <i>near</i> the door of this house. He remembers fear and every emotion he hates rising like bile in his throat, and realizes he has no right to deny that he <i>is</i> scared. Scared of too many things than he’d rather admit, and he grits his teeth with an anger that comes from knowing you’re weak.</p><p>He is afraid of being opened, being seen by everyone, and them finding nothing they want in him when they do.</p><p>“What are you acting so scared of?” Sapnap scoffs, his grip on his arms tightening subtly. “Spit it out.”</p><p>Dream frowns, scrutinizing Sapnap, and thinks he’s not the only one scared of something here. </p><p>“No need to be so aggressive,” Dream sneers back, unable to hold back because of how <i>noisy</i> it was inside his head, and today he can’t help his emotions take the reins. He lets the fear and the rage and the want in him take control and speak, for the first time in a long while. “I’ll say what I want to say.”</p><p>Sapnap’s brow twitches in irritation, his teeth grinding together. “You come here unannounced after all that shit—don’t think you can act like you’re all that here,” he snarls. Dream huffs, trying to hold his tongue back from lashing out instinctively. Doing so wasn’t what he came here to do. God, why can’t he just <i>say what he wants to say?!</i></p><p>“Listen,” he tries, his voice attempting to stay level, “I know I did really fucked up things to you guys—I know!—just—”</p><p>“Oh please, save me the speech,” Sapnap cuts in, lips tugged into a scowl that Dream sees as almost miserable, before Sapnap replaces it with wrath. “There’s nothing here for you to say, huh? You’re just here to get me to do something for you, like you always are. Didn’t need to go through that whole sympathetic act you put on earlier; I wouldn’t have agreed either way.”</p><p>“That is <i>not</i> why I’m here,” Dream retorts sharply, standing up with his shoulders taunt with agitation. “Do not <i>assume</i> things about <i>me</i>.” </p><p>“I’ll say what I want to say,” Sapnap echoes maliciously, baring his teeth. “You’ve already said your piece about not giving a shit about us before, no need to show it too!”</p><p>Dream slams his hands on the table loudly, Sapnap flinching back in reaction. </p><p>“<i>Shut up!</i>” </p><p>The tension in the air that follows was strangling, the both of them staring each other down and breathing heavily. Dream’s fingers curl together, nails digging into his palm painfully. </p><p>After a few beats of silence, he bows his head. </p><p>“Then why did you come here?” </p><p>Sapnap’s voice cracks barely, raw and weak. The anger from before simmers down slightly, leaving behind a glimpse of a man lost and wondering and hoping, and Dream couldn’t let him down. Not again. </p><p>“Just get it out,” Sapnap says tiredly, his shoulders slumped. He gives a sarcastic laugh. “What, you came here to say sorry?”</p><p>“Yes,” Dream answers immediately, quick enough to catch Sapnap off-guard. “I am.”</p><p>Sapnap lets out a small noise of disbelief, eyes widening in shock. He didn’t— There’s no way he actually—</p><p>“That’s why I’m here,” Dream says quietly, withdrawing his hands from the table and seating himself back down on the chair. “For all this. For all I said.”</p><p>“Just say what you want me for,” Sapnap growls, his hands balling into fists. “Don’t do this whole fake apology to get me to—”</p><p>“It’s not fake.” Dream tangles his fingers through his hair in frustration, the smile on his mask solemn. “It’s <i>not fake</i> Sapnap! Dammit, I know I fucked up, but just believe me here.” He pauses, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Hah. I’m being selfish here.”</p><p>“You’re saying you’re sorry.” Sapnap stares at Dream and his mask, his expression showing a thousand and one emotions that flashes by too quickly for Dream to fully see. “You’re <i>sorry</i>.”</p><p>“Don’t make me say it,” Dream grits out, cursing in his head at his stubborn pride. “I <i>am.</i> Sapnap. I’m a selfish guy. I’m probably doing this just to feel better about myself. Maybe I’m doing this because I do want to get better. I don’t know. Either way, I won’t ask for anything from you again.” </p><p>The laugh that escapes Sapnap is borderline hysterical. “I can’t believe this.” He takes a deep breath in and looks at Dream. “From you of all people. But why do I want to believe you so bad? It’s been so <i>long—</i>” His voice breaks off, and Dream feels his eyes burn with unshed tears he has been holding back for so long. </p><p>“But you’re a liar. How do I trust a liar?”</p><p>And at this, Dream knows he’s being impulsive, being reckless, but he misses Sapnap, misses Bad, misses George, misses old times of freedom, so he thinks it’s fine today for him to be impulsive. To be emotional. He wants to believe that maybe there’s a place where someone cares for him both before and even after they learn what he is. </p><p>His hands pull down his mask, slamming it down on the table, not caring if he might’ve damaged it. A small part of him hopes he did. The air around him rushes in towards his face, and he sharply breathes in the fresh air. Sapnap’s eyes widen as he subconsciously stands up, the chair he was sitting on clattering to the floor.</p><p>“Dream, what—?!”</p><p>Dream whips his head up, and shows his face to the world. It’s oddly freeing. Now, there is no mask to hide just how easily he feels, and that fact doesn’t scare him as much as he thinks it did before.</p><p>“I don’t know if this proves anything,” he mutters, his hands shakily clenching the edge of the table. “Shit, why did I— no, what’s done is done. Sapnap, I’ll say just say it. But I hate this. I hate <i>so much</i> about this server.”</p><p>The silence Sapnap responds with is enough to keep Dream going, a delirious adrenaline rushing through his veins. </p><p>“I hate that prison, I hate L’manburg, Manburg, I hate that fucking Logstedshire, I hate looking at this place sometimes so much it hurts because I made this place! I did this! Why do I hate it?”</p><p>He looks up and Sapnap sees Dream and the way fury burns itself dry behind dull emerald eyes, the way his lips twist into a scathing smile full of danger and hatehate<i>hate</i>, the way everything on his face moves and shifts in symphony with the surge of hatred that flows from Dream. The thing is, none of it is directed at him; all of it is towards himself. </p><p>It hurts, looking at him. Sapnap has no time to take in the scarred face of the man he wants so badly to call out again like times of old. </p><p>( A brother, he whispers. The porcelain mask on the table is still, the ink of its smile fading out. )</p><p>“Every single time I look at it, I’m reminded of everything I’m not,” Dream hisses (furiously, brokenly). “And I want to <i>burn</i> it all to the ground, because all of this is here because I’m not who I want to be! How do I forgive myself for all the things I didn’t become?”</p><p>Sapnap— Sapnap can’t say anything and he feels so helpless and angry and—</p><p>He doesn’t think. He grabs Dream by the collar of his hoodie and yanks him across the table. Dream is cut off as he stares wide-eyed at the man of fire. </p><p>“You’re a shitty guy, Dream,” he almost yells. “God knows how many people hold a grudge against you, and how many want you dead! Fucking hell, you should know I’m one of those people who hate you.” His voice tightens at the last part, as if he was forcing himself to say it. “Then— then you come marching in here to say your fucked up version of ‘<i>sorry</i>’ like that would ever make it up for saying you didn’t care—!”</p><p>Dream grabs Sapnap’s wrist fiercely. “I know what I am, I don’t need you to tell me that,” he growls, but his grip on his wrist doesn’t tighten or loosen. “But please, let me— let me make up for it.”</p><p>Sapnap lets go of Dream, and Dream stumbles back coughing. He looks back up and takes a deep breath in. </p><p>“I never meant it,” Dream says, his face betraying the steadiness of his voice. “I need you to know that. When I said I didn’t care. I do. I <i>do</i> but I didn’t want to and that’s on me.”</p><p>“You’re sorry?” Sapnap asks blankly, like he still can’t believe it. Like he wants Dream to say it himself.</p><p>Dream closes his eyes and suddenly pulls him closer, hands clenching the back of Sapnap’s shirt tightly as he murmurs quietly between them. </p><p>“I’ll make it up for you guys,” he whispers instead. “I <i>will</i>.”</p><p>Sapnap feels the warmth of the unmasked man, the heartbeat of a life. He trembles, faintly and only for a moment, before he lifts his arms to wrap around Dream’s back. </p><p>“You better,” he croaks. Dream lets out a wet laugh at that, and without the mask it’s more open, clearer.</p><p>So here’s the setting: two men stand close, arm wrapped around each other with too many feelings to hold between them, so they do it together. Two men take the first step to a new day where they piece together their shards of their bonds and line it with gold, forge it with netherite and temper it with time. </p><p>Dream still has his power-stained hands that pulse crimson, he still has the guilt that makes him want to swallow the sun and slam shut his doors in cowardice. Dream knows that so much of Sapnap exists without him, and he wonders how long it will take for him to get used to being let go instead of letting go. </p><p>He should talk more. He thinks back to his conversation with Puffy. But it’s hard to do that in person; he has only ever learned to love from a distance. </p><p>Dream was always a fast learner anyways.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aha italics go brr</p>
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